


Throwing Away the Umbrella

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Actress Reader, Adult Magazine, Angst, Blackmail, Blaming yourself, Breakfast Show, British Government, COVID-19, Canada, Character Backgrounds, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Conflict, Coping Mechanisms, Correspondents, Crossdressing, Empathy, F/M, Family, Fear, Filming, Fluff, Friendship, Home truths, Hope, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, Insecurities, Jealousy, Journalism, London, Memories, Mentions of Violence, Misunderstandings, New Year's Eve, Nightmares, Overprotective Behaviour, Secrets, Sleeping Pills, Social Media, Strong Sexual References, Suspicion, Trust, adapting, date, drug references, faith - Freeform, feeling like you deserve to be punished, forties and fifties America, happy pills, headcanons, lady bracknell - Freeform, laying out boundaries, long-distance relationship occasionally, midnight mass, pandemic related stress, post-series 4, questions over sexuality, sekai no owari umbrella, sherrinford, support network, threat of losing your job, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 110,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Mostly set after series 4.There are less secrets now, and a career change as well as a deeper relationship between Mycroft and his special someone beckon, but can Mycroft really pull away from his past? Will the government let him? More importantly will he let himself?And will his special someone be able to be there for him when their own world is being slowly turned on its head?Only time will tell.Mycroft Holmes/Female Reader.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 139





	1. Throwing Away the Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the support that you have given to my stories. I really appreciate it and hope that you enjoy this! :)
> 
> The song used in this chapter is 'umbrella' by Sekai No Owari. :)

As Mycroft Holmes stared at himself in the mirror in the place where he lived it was impossible for him to tell which one-the him outside the mirror and the him, which appeared trapped in its confines-was real, which one of him it was who was getting angrier and which one turned and then walked away again. 

_The me that was reflected in the mirror was transparent  
If only I didn't know the things I understood_

He’d collected his umbrella on his way out, before he’d slid into his usual government car. Having already informed the driver of his intentions there had been no need for speech. His umbrella in the small gap in between his knees it had been _that_ which he’d stared at as the clouds of thought had grown stronger in his mind. It had rained that morning and it was the paths of the leftover raindrops that his eyes had followed, whilst in his head thoughts had taken shape and bloomed. One by one they’d dripped and sunken down into his consciousness. 

There was his brother Sherlock and his parents in his office that morning, Mummy holding Sherlock up as an adult and Mycroft as a child. As if Mycroft had _not…_ but there it was, he’d told himself as reason and logic battled to keep control inside of him. Mummy was frightened and trying to keep her family close, to package them all up, to mend, to _heal_ …she did not want them to fall apart and yet-could she not see how much her anger and blame of him made him resent her? For though he had never been her favourite he had always _tried…_ He’d shifted himself irritably in his seat as he’d tried to process it all. He had still been tired from recent events. Maybe Mummy was right after all? He’d thought. Even though a voice had spoken in the back of his mind, saying that just because she was older than him it had not meant that she was _right._ The protection of his sister had been an act that he’d gone along with from an early age yes, but one that he’d reviewed, as he’d gotten older. He might have not always visited her, kept a close enough eye on her as he should have, but he'd reviewed the situation, hadn’t he? He hadn't let his greater jobs in government distract him completely... _yet,_ a little voice had said in the back of his mind, he’d been _too_ worried, when it had come down to it, about the effects of any possible change to consider the different options properly, hadn't he? Too worried about moving down the wrong path, which apparently he had already stepped on. If he had turned his head away and acted like a child and avoided dealing with it like Mummy had accused him of doing then what _else_ was she right about? A frown had fixed itself more tightly around his mouth at that last thought and his driver had sent him a look in the mirror that he’d missed, as Mummy’s _other_ words had come to him. _F/N…_ Mycroft had thought of her with an ache inside his chest. Was it true? Or was Mummy just trying to bundle the family together again and shut everyone else out? Even protecting _him_ in an odd way? A streak of wistfulness had shot through him then, before his countenance had fallen again. If Mummy was right then F/N…was the person who he’d known since childhood _only_ still in touch with him because of what he was able to do for her? Was _that_ the reason? _All_ that it was? Even if it wasn’t then how would he _ever_ be able to find out or distinguish between the two? F/N had a tendency to call him whenever she needed help or was in trouble more than she wasn’t, _that_ much had been true, but he hadn’t been able to let himself see what that might add up to fully in that moment. He was a scared child just like he’d admitted to himself. Afraid of change…afraid of getting _hurt._ He’d come to a standstill in every aspect of his life because of his _fear,_ he’d realized. Yet him going where he was…he was at least _trying_ to get some answers, wasn’t he? To reason it out, even if, even if he wasn’t about to confront it fully and wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do such a thing …even if… 

_I am just the umbrella that protects you  
From being drenched by the bothersome rain  
It seems that is the fate I've decided upon  
Unable to hope for anything, because I'm afraid of getting hurt_

He’d batted a hand against his umbrella irritably, before he’d _winced_ as some of the cold droplets had splashed onto the bottom of his trousers and shoes. He’d realized that the car had been in the process of rolling to a stop and of settling beneath the worn and overhanging sign marked, _‘Hudson’_ that was above the street. Mycroft had told his driver to wait there, gathered himself together the best that he’d been able to [he’d felt as if he’d been splintering, coming undone piece by piece as he’d walked around until there was nothing left of him] and gotten out of the car, his umbrella clenched firmly in one hand.

He’d gone through the outside door [the security in the place was dreadful and he was sure that the _only_ reason it hadn’t been upgraded was because Mrs. Hudson, who was F/N’s agent and his brother Sherlock’s landlady, wanted to spite him] thrust his umbrella in the holder that was provided and jogged up the seventeen steps. He’d pushed the door with its narrow pane of cloudy glass open and stepped inside in an authoritative yet calm manner. 

“Mrs. Hudson.” He’d nodded at the older woman’s half-glance his way-she still treated him with contempt and as if he were a stupid _child_ despite the fact that he’d gotten her out of a building post an explosion several months ago. Presently she was sat opposite the door at her desk and seemed to be transferring something from a paper copy to digital. She’d held up a warning finger and he’d tried not to wait _too_ impatiently. 

Finally, and when the woman had turned the page around and seemed intent on further carrying out her work he’d asked her, “Is F/N back?” in spite of the fact that he’d already _known_ that she was there. 

She’d gestured towards the back room where Mycroft had been able to hear a kettle coming to boil and the chink of two cups. He’d felt a pang inside him for a moment. A little jealousy over F/N taking care of Mrs. Hudson, _especially_ when she’d only just returned. He’d forgotten, in his state of confusion, that F/N cared for her friends, however. That even if she’d come around for a chat with her agent she would have allowed Mrs. Hudson to prioritize her work and gone to make her friend a cup of tea [or several] in the meantime. Forgotten all the ways that she’d slipped off his coat for him when he’d returned from a work trip or made _him_ a cup of tea just the way that he liked it. 

He wasn’t sure if it was that jealousy or just his desire to more quickly get to the point with F/N that had made him say, “I don’t mean to rush you”- 

“Yet I’m sure that’s _exactly_ what you mean to do Mycroft Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson had looked up from her notes at him disapprovingly. Mycroft had felt the same _flicker_ of anger that he’d felt in the car over his mother’s words, before the spark had petered out into resignation at older women treating him in such a way. 

Mycroft had sighed and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Something had fluttered out of it as he’d opened it and had fallen down to the floor. He’d ignored it outwardly, even though he hadn’t kept anything loose there normally and his heart had skipped a beat at its sudden presence, and taken a ten-pound note out of his wallet instead. He’d stepped forward and placed it upon the desk. “Why don’t you have an early lunch on me, Mrs. Hudson?” The woman had looked at him, if anything; all the _more_ suspiciously, before she’d slowly slid the note towards her. She’d resisted, what Mycroft had _surely_ thought must have been a temptation- to check if the note was forged or not-tidied up her papers, clicked the computer back on to its desktop again and cleared her throat as she’d gotten to her feet. She’d stepped around her desk, taken an unfathomable amount of time putting on her coat and then, to his utmost horror, on the way to the door had picked up what had fallen out of his wallet. She’d turned it around and had somehow _looked_ both triumphant and angry about what she’d seen, before she’d coolly held it out to him.

_“Yours_ I presume?” 

His expression pinched in a frown he’d taken it from her. He’d only just been able to look at it when there had been the clattering of a tea tray and footsteps.

“Mar-Oh, hey Mycroft! It’s good to see you.” F/N had planted the tea tray down on a free space upon Mrs. Hudson’s desk.

“You’re looking well,” Mycroft had informed her, even as his entire body had tensed upon seeing her. He’d spoken the truth, however. F/N was healthy with bright eyes, as if the energy that he’d felt draining from his _own_ body had gone to her instead and she seemed to have picked up some colour and a couple of pounds from where she’d been filming abroad. The latter fact had particularly agreed with him, even on that day, as he was always slightly worried that she might have taken up one of those faddish diets due to the pressure of the industry that she’s in. There was no need, in his opinion, for her to do such a thing. The fact that she’s beautiful the way she is, is just that: _fact._

“What’s that?” She’d noticed what he had been holding.

“Oh, er it’s nothing.” He’d made to quickly tuck it away.

Mrs Hudson, who _still_ hadn’t left, however, and who had been watching them with beady eyes full of intent had said, “I wouldn’t have thought that a photo with the pair of you in it would be _nothing,_ Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft had swallowed. F/N had tilted her head a fraction as she’d looked at him a little questioningly.

He’d only been _half_ -able to look at her as he’d muttered, “Just a small joke of Sherlock’s I think, you know how he is.” He’d given a casual shrug and left out the circumstances-what his mother had said, how Sherlock had _plainly_ disagreed with the part about F/N, if nothing else, and had slipped in a photo when he’d borrowed some money from Mycroft, how Mycroft _himself_ had made such a thing easy for his brother by putting his wallet on the desk instead of giving Sherlock the money directly. He’d been unusually compliant due to what their mother had just put them through and because of the fact that he’d wanted to get on with his work. Then everyone had left and he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else, resulting in him going home at lunchtime and then to the agent’s office. He’d seen that F/N’s flight had landed back home during the course of the morning. Watched it land on CCTV…He’d imagined her listening to one of the audiobooks on the flight. The ones that he’d recorded especially for her, using his _own_ voice, when she’d just started out with acting and felt isolated when she'd travelled. He’d done _so_ much for her… 

“Of course.” Her face had softened at the mention of his brother and masked the hurt she’d felt-unbeknownst to Mycroft-at the idea that he'd _only_ carry a photo of them together because of a prank by Sherlock and Mycroft had felt a prickle of irritation with her. F/N hadn’t spotted such a thing. “Didn't think you’d missed me all _that_ much,” she’d said to further patch over her true feelings as she’d begun to walk towards him. “Its only _been_ a couple of weeks.” Her hands had gone behind his shoulders then to pull him into a bit of a hug. Mycroft had stiffened. F/N _had_ noticed that and had pulled away from him abruptly. He’d only felt a tad guilty and shot her a quick look of apology, before he’d sniffed and hadn’t looked at her at all. She’d looked at him concernedly. “Martha, could you give us a minute please?” 

The older woman had looked between them, bowed her head and finally left.

“Did something happen?” F/N had turned her attention back to Mycroft again.

“No.” Mycroft had shrugged away from her, gone to stand beside the safer location of Mrs. Hudson’s desk and picked up the closest papers that had been in reach. They hadn’t been the ones that she’d been working on earlier and had instead detailed possible roles for her clients. The ones that he’d picked up had ironically been about F/N, which he'd supposed made sense as they were something that Mrs. Hudson would _surely_ have wanted to have on hand due to the fact that she’d _known_ that F/N would be visiting her that day. “Yes.” He’d flipped the page-a regular person would have _hardly_ taken in the detail at all, but with his mind, even in the state that he’d been in, he’d memorized every single word. Of course Mrs. Hudson would have probably have said that wasn’t due to his super powered brain, but due to _another_ fact. One that he’d tried to shrug off as he’d uttered, “I’m surprised that Sherlock hasn’t told you already.”

“Maybe he wanted you to tell me yourself?” F/N had been patient with him, but her words had just served to annoy Mycroft further.

“That would be very mature of him, but then like Mummy said this morning he _is_ the only adult between us.”

F/N had appeared surprised for a moment. “My, what nonsense is _that?”_ She’d reached to touch at his arm.

_“Don’t,_ and please refrain from calling me that dreadful nickname. I’m _not_ yours.” He’d flinched away from her grasp.

They’d both swallowed at the thing.

“No, of course not, I’m sorry,” F/N had tried to recover herself and for one moment Mycroft had _truly_ hated her for making him feel guilty again. “Do you-Do you want a cup of tea then? I can make another. I _know_ that you don’t like it the way that Martha does.” 

“No, I don’t want your tea.” F/N had swallowed at his response and had looked lost for a moment. “Fine, I’ll have a cup.” Some of his stubbornness had disappeared and he’d flung the papers back down and thrown himself in the chair that was behind Mrs. Hudson’s desk. Despite his appearance F/N _hadn’t_ been surprised by the way that he’d positioned himself with authority behind the desk and had momentarily brightened at having something to do. She’d gone off to make the tea. 

Whilst he’d waited for her he’d peered up and around at the photos on the arch of the room where the desk was set in and scowled the more that he’d looked at them. Although he wasn’t in any of them _directly_ F/N had been in a few and they’d brought back memories for him as well. There was F/N as a character that she’d initially feared playing, but that _he’d_ encouraged, thinking that the role was made for her. It had been the one that had brought more coverage of her in the end, some of it unwanted, and he’d gotten a security detail worked out for her for events and if she was in need of them during filming or would be out publicly for a particularly long time. It had felt _good_ to be able to protect her. Another photo had shown F/N at a premiere wearing a dress that he’d helped her find in a mad, last minute rush after her other one had been ruined accidentally. She’d rung him in a state of distress. Done so too whenever she was finding the pressure difficult or whenever she was struggling to learn her lines and get into her character. He’d consoled her, taken her through line-by-line and encouraged her. It had made him feel _good_ to be able to help her. 

_Even if I were to return to that day one more time  
I would do it all over again, I probably would_

_Yet…_ was it stupid of him to _not_ want his relationship to change with her even if he _was_ being used? Childish of him to cling on to someone who he might be better off without? Even if he couldn’t imagine…couldn’t _imagine_ life without her, without being able to pop into the small office with its dangerously tilting books in their shelves either side of the nook of the desk, being able to use a _completely_ different part of his mind as he’d helped her and letting the most used parts of him become refreshed again. If she should learn of the truth of Eurus and decide not to be friends with him…or if she should _find_ someone else, however…

_If only the rain could continue to fall like this  
I know I can't hope for it, but  
If the rain that falls upon you stops; if you long for blue skies,  
Then surely I will..._

His mind had hardened at the very thought because _why_ would she want him? Of _course_ she would go for someone else! His life is too complicated and different from hers, he’d told himself. 

She’d walked back into the office and put the tea down in front of him as she too had sat down. She’d looked at him with worried eyes and a bracing smile upon her face. To get his mind off her expression he’d stared at his tea. It had been the right mix between weak and strong and he’d felt grateful that it was just standard tea, that she hadn’t added _chamomile_ in an attempt to calm him-a move that he would have found all the _more_ aggravating. He hadn’t been able to rid his mind of the nagging idea that he might lose her soon, however, that she might have someone _else_ to confide in and turn to for help and eventually he’d looked back at her. She’d been _unnerved;_ he’d been able to tell by her suddenly wary expression, by his _own_ bracingly polite smile.

_If I didn't know all these things about myself  
Maybe I would be able to hope for a happier future_

“Forgive me for being so rude before. We should talk about you. All went well I hope, on your travels?” he’d prompted her.

She’d nodded for a moment, pulled her _own_ cup of tea closer to her-he’d noticed that it was a herbal remedy of some kind and had felt momentarily irritated about her taking care of herself-and stirred it for a moment absentmindedly [she always left the spoon in for herself, but remembered to take it out for other people] before her expression had cleared and she’d chosen to indulge him, “Yes, the heat played a little bit of havoc with the technology for the first couple of days, but other than that it was good.” 

“You told me about the technology before. What about _after_ you’d finished shooting for the day? Did you dine out with the cast and crew? Get to know the city? Its nightlife?” he’d hummed.

She’d looked a little _worried_ about what he might be implying. “Mycroft”-she’d abandoned her spoon and Mycroft had sighed a little-“I”-

“I suppose what I want to know, not that it’s any of my business of course, but if you met anyone, whilst you were away?” He’d looked at her heatedly for a moment, before he’d lowered his gaze.

“Why are you asking me _that?”_ she’d queried. 

“It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption, is it not?” He’d looked up at her and cocked a brow challengingly.

“There haven’t been any stupid rumours have there? Don’t tell me that _you_ got Twitter too?”

“I assume that something would had to have happened for there to _be_ rumours”-

“You _know_ what the media’s like. I shouldn’t have to tell _you_ that. They _slaughtered_ Sherlock in the run-up to when he faked his own death,” her voice had grown considerably both more hushed and frantic, as she’d spoken. “I _still_ haven’t forgiven you for that by the way,” she’d told him reprovingly with folded arms as she’d sat back in her chair.

“For not telling you?” She’d nodded. He’d sighed as the memory of her tears post-Sherlock had returned to him, before something had occurred to him and he’d looked at her as he’d said, “Well, I still haven’t forgiven _you_ for going on that dreadful show with my father.” She’d picked up some colour in her cheeks when she’d realized that he’d only been _half_ -joking with her, knowing that he was referencing, _‘Pointless,’_ a quiz show that she’d gone on just before her career had properly taken off and when she’d still been considered a member of the public, only having had _small_ roles in adverts or the odd line or scene as an extra on TV shows before that point. Edwin had always been very kind to her and more _knowledgeable_ than most people thought him to be and _certainly_ more so than his wife made out. It had been a joy to her when he’d accepted the invitation, even though she’d backed out of asking Mycroft previously, thinking that it might be an inappropriate thing for him to do since his work kept him in the shadows. “I barely saw you at that time,” Mycroft had continued ignorantly on, “And when I heard about you it was through my _father.”_

“I didn’t realize that it was such an issue for you,” F/N had remarked coolly. “I thought you were very busy at the time. Didn’t think you’d _notice_ my absence in your life and didn’t think that it mattered all that much anyway. You wouldn’t have opened up to me then just like you’re not opening up to me _now.”_ She’d known that he’d been hiding something from her for many years by that point. 

His lips had twitched downwards unpleasantly at that and the fact that she was being so dense-how she didn’t know that he _always_ felt the difference when she was there or not he wasn’t aware-and his hand had only gone automatically towards the papers on Mrs. Hudson’s desk that he’d picked up earlier for a moment, before he’d retracted it again. “In any case, we were talking about _you.”_

_One snowy day, you closed me, and looked up at the sky  
I'll never be able to touch your smiling face that seemed to be crying_

“I’d prefer to talk about whatever made you so unhappy.” She’d loosened her arms, but _only_ a little, annoyed about the way that he seemed to be closing himself off from her and that he seemed unable to confide in her. What was the _point_ in their relationship if he felt unable to do that? 

“I’m fine,” he’d responded curtly and actually picked up one of the papers that time. “You shouldn’t do this one.” He’d waved it at her and she'd been able to glimpse its contents. She'd already had a discussion with Martha about it. “The plot sounds silly.”

“I _want_ to do that one,” she’d fired back at him a little heatedly. He’d quirked an eyebrow up at the way that she’d leant forward. She’d rolled back and got herself under control once more. “The script may be a little exaggerated in places,” she’d conceded, “But the character’s _fantastic._ I won’t _always_ get the chance to play people like that, especially now that I’m getting _older._ Mrs. Hudson says that I’ll be in for frumpy, middle-aged parts all too soon, mothers and things like that.” Mycroft had looked all the _more_ aggrieved.

“You shouldn’t listen to everything that she says,” he’d been dismissive of F/N’s agent, “And you _shouldn’t_ do that part.”

_“Why?”_ she’d asked him.

“It doesn’t suit you.” She’d looked hurt.

“How come? You don’t think I can be like that? Daring? Adventurous? _Rebellious?”-_

“You shouldn’t _have_ to be like that”-

“Stop trying to manage me Mycroft!” 

Suddenly they’d found that they were both on their feet. Mycroft’s eyes had glared, whilst F/N had panted. They’d stared hard at one another. Mycroft had blown out a breath and sat back down again. To his horror he’d noticed shininess about F/N’s face as she’d sat down. A pang of guilt had hit him and his fear had built up inside him.

“Please don’t cry,” he’d urged her with a humble persuasiveness about him, “You _know_ that I can’t cope when you do.”

_Sad, beautiful memories  
Are like a revolving lantern, the wishes flicker away  
Before these ugly and real feelings become stronger  
There must be the sickeningly radiant sun_

Maybe he was not meant to be with her if he hurt her? Maybe they were not meant to be together _anyway?_ Maybe _that_ was the truth of things and one that it was better to accept, before his feelings grew any stronger.

“Sorry,” she’d interrupted his thought, as she’d tried to brush her tears away with one hand. “You _know_ that I cry easily.” He’d hummed and had automatically pushed his pocket-handkerchief towards her. She’d dabbed at her eyes with it, before she’d lowered it to the desk again. He’d awkwardly left it there, just in case she wasn’t done yet. “I just hate it when we”- she’d gestured in between them and Mycroft had nodded with a clenched jaw. “I _wish_ that you’d just tell me what’s wrong. Is it-?” She’d half-looked between the desk and him and Mycroft’s brow had furrowed as he’d tried to work out what the devil she was getting at. “Is it _me?”_ she’d gone on courageously. “Do you resent _me_ for the career that I have? Is _that_ it?” 

Mycroft had shaken his head, but it was becoming clearer to him that he would be unable to avoid having it all out with her. 

_Someone said my feelings I can freely choose  
That's not true; I can't change that any more than I can my fate_

“That’s not it exactly, no.” Mycroft had swallowed and looked off to the side. “A lot happened when you were away.”

“There wasn’t another explosion?” Mycroft had shaken his head. _“Good…”_ She’d released a long breath. 

_“Mm.”_ He’d looked at her uncertainly. “It’s quite a long tale. I’m not sure where to begin.”

“I’ve got time.” She’d grasped at his hand. Mycroft had instinctively tensed, but had _tried_ to be gentle with her when he’d deposited her hand back upon the desk.

“You might not have. Not if I tell you.”

“Is _that_ what you’re afraid of?” He’d looked away from her again. “I’ll _always_ have time for you Mycroft. I wish that you’d told me that something was going on. I would have come back _sooner.”_ He’d known what she was trying to do. She was trying to embrace him with her words since her _touch_ hadn’t seemed to console or reassure him, but Mummy’s words had pricked at him. Had she been right? Was he able to _trust_ F/N or was it better to sever things and restore his dignity? To pull away at that point? Even though…even though he could not imagine his life without her… 

_If only the rain could continue to fall like this  
I should understand that I can't hope for it  
If the rain that falls upon you stops; if you long for blue skies,  
Then surely I will..._

“Why would you have done _that?”_ He’d known that there would be no going back as soon as he’d said such a thing, but there was no going back to what there had been before _either._ Everything had changed. She’d looked taken aback by his words and the stare that he’d given her. It was all challenging and haughty. _“Well,”_ he’d shrugged as if he were being reasonable; “It was a good opportunity for you abroad. Would you have come back here earlier because”-he’d hesitated, but her provoking cat-like stare had urged him on-“Because we have _known_ one another a long time-?”

“Since childhood”-

“Since childhood,” he’d agreed with her, “Or would you have done it just so that it would be _easier_ for you to ask me for things?”

The air had left the room.

_The rain quietly lifts, and the umbrella is placed in the umbrella stand  
It seems you forget even that fact that you've forgotten_

“I beg your pardon?” she’d sounded astonished and as if he could not _possibly_ have said what he just had done.

Mycroft had snorted a little at her reaction to him. “I believe my words were quite plain,” he’d held firm. “But if you _really_ need a further explanation then I do not believe that you quite _realize_ what I have done for you.” She’d opened her mouth like the goldfish he detests. “All the advice that I have given, some of it better than your own _agent_ in fact as to what roles you are suited for.” He’d known that all of the words he’d spoken had been worthier than that of Mrs. Hudson, but he’d been trying to be kind and make F/N _see_ his point of view without her getting too angry. “The late night calls. All the _purchases”-_

“I tried to pay you back. You wouldn’t accept”- she’d quickly interrupted him.

“They were gifts”-he’d inclined his head-“But I still expected you to redeem them through words and actions”-

“Well I-Do you _seriously_ think that I don’t know how lucky I am? I know that if you’d gone into this industry, as I thought you _should_ have by the way because you being on stage is one of the few times that I’ve seen you _happy_ Mycroft, that you would have been better than me. That if you’d started at the same time as me then you would have been near enough national treasure status in this country by now and that if I haven’t thanked you enough then it’s because I feel _guilty!_ Guilty because sometimes I feel as if _you_ should be living my life, but amplified by a hundred, thousand times! _You_ should be having these experiences that I feel might have made you happy, _you_ should be the one calling _me_ about them and I should probably be the one doing a boring, government job”-he’d flinched-“But I’m not…I _know_ in part that you are responsible for how far I’ve gotten and I’m sorry if you are suffering and if I shouldn’t have asked you to help me so often when you are the _only_ one who I have to turn to, but maybe if you just told me what’s wrong in _full_ then we could get to fixing this mess!” She’d stood and loomed over him for a moment, before she’d sat back down again. 

“You sound like my mother.” Mycroft had looked away from her, feigning a lack of interest.

F/N had bitten her lip and been tempted to tell him that at least _one_ of them had been because right in that moment she’d felt like a coal miner trying to get to the bottom of Mycroft’s woes and had needed Violet’s temper as well as her _own_ patience to draw upon, but she’d known that, that would _only_ have made things worse, so she’d said, “The pair of you have fallen out again I take it?”

“It’s more than that this time, I”-

“Then tell me about it Mycroft, _please.”_ She’d squeezed at his hand encouragingly, before she’d withdrawn again. 

He’d huffed out a breath. “Eurus isn’t dead,” he’d spoken the words to his knees, knowing, just like he had before, that he wouldn’t be able to take the words back once they were out there.

She’d blinked at him. “What do you mean?” her voice had gone all hushed.

“I mean that…” his mouth had slowly loosened to enable the words to come out, “My parents found out about it when you were away. Sherlock had been on the case a little _sooner.”_ He’d gone on to explain the whole sorry tale to her, the incidents from childhood that he’d never spoken of, that she’d only been aware of vague snatches of before if at all. She’d known that Eurus was a strange child, that somehow, despite her age-and she’d been five years and younger during all the time that F/N had known her for-she’d been able to cause rifts and provoke argument in the Holmes family. She’d known about Eurus being sent away after she’d caused a fire at the Holmes ancestral home and known about the later fire that she’d supposedly perished in, but Mycroft had let her in further that time. He’d told her that his uncle and then _he_ had kept Eurus in a secure location-Sherrinford-unbeknownst to everyone else who’d believed Eurus to be dead. Explained that, that was the reason he’d stopped, _‘messing around’_ with drama and acting-she’d remembered them arguing about such a thing when Mycroft’s priorities seemed to have changed overnight-and been encouraged, again by his uncle, to work towards and to take a government job where he would be able to ensure that Eurus was hidden and that both she, and an unpredictable Sherlock, were safe. _Safer_ at any rate, he’d amended his words. F/N had looked at him sympathetically as she’d realized all the suffering that he’d hidden all these years and had grasped at his hand. He’d looked surprised by the gesture. 

When she’d let go he’d told her, “I thought you’d be cross, annoyed as you had been about Sherlock faking his own death?” 

“Cross, no, I never”- she’d looked shaken by the whole thing and then had swallowed. “And _now?_ What happened more recently?” 

He’d told her of the latest occurrences, having to go back a little further in order to explain about Sherlock’s realization that he had a sister, then to the day of the explosion when Mycroft had explained things to Sherlock for the first time regarding their sister. The explosion had happened and it was down to Eurus because she’d managed to escape from Sherrinford-the secure prison-that she'd been placed in for her own protection and that of others, despite the fact that Mycroft had _tried_ to strike some kind of balance in keeping her happy through rewarding her with a gift of her choice whenever she’d helped him out with government work from her confines. ‘Spotting terrorist activity, that kind of thing,’ Mycroft had said with a wave of his hand, that not being the important point. He’d gotten on to the bigger issue of confessing that one of the gifts he’d given her had been some time alone with James Moriarty-the man who had caused Sherlock so much trouble that he’d had to fake his own death even after Moriarty had killed himself. Eurus and Moriarty had plotted together in that time, which had resulted in the day of games that Eurus had put on for Mycroft, Sherlock and Sherlock’s best friend John once they’d arrived at the discreet location that she’d been hidden in, Mycroft doing so in the disguise of a boat captain, which had caused F/N to momentarily smile. Even in his job he was using _acting..._ Mycroft’s voice had gone a little weak part of the way through though and he’d gotten up to see if he’d been able to find a stronger drink in Mrs. Hudson’s office, their tea having _long_ since gone. 

“The bottom filing cabinet,” F/N had sniffed when she’d realized what he’d been up to. He’d looked at her. Tears had run down her face. He’d just informed her of how, at one point, and thinking that it was his _only_ way to save his brother and John, he’d tried to get Sherlock angry enough to shoot him, but Sherlock had seen right through his attempts and been frustrated by how quickly Eurus had come between them as well and had threatened to shoot _himself_ instead. Mycroft’s voice had been weakening, but it had been F/N’s utterance of, ‘Jesus Christ,’ that had _really_ made him pause and believe that they might need a break for a moment. He’d forgotten how delicate she could be in his retelling, how fragile _all_ human beings are really, just wanting to get it over with and done. To tear the bandage off quickly if he was about to lose the purest thing he had left, second to only his family. She mustn’t have been aware that his attention was on her for she’d proceeded to quickly dab at her eyes with the pocket-handkerchief that she’d left on the desk previously. He’d directed his view to the bottom filing cabinet in order to give her a little more privacy, but his brow had furrowed when he had not initially seen what he’d been after.

“It’s underneath the papers.” She must have heard him pause.

He’d delved his hand under. _“Ah,”_ he’d murmured as it had closed around cold glass triumphantly. He’d frowned though at the bottle of half-drunk whisky that he’d pulled out. It was the cheap stuff. He’d glanced at where F/N had still been composing herself. Maybe it would do in this situation, he’d thought. It would _have_ to at any rate. He’d gone to the kitchen to get some glasses and water for it. 

By the time that he’d returned F/N had seemed to be more composed-sat straight-backed in her seat, albeit red-eyed and serious. When he’d gone behind her and attempted to deposit her glass in front of her, however, she’d clutched so suddenly onto his hand as he’d withdrawn that his heart had skipped a beat inside of his chest.

_“F/N…”_ he’d tried to get her shocked mind back on to the course of reason.

Still she’d held his hand obstinately to her face for a moment, as her mind had thought about the murders he’d witnessed as part of Eurus’s games and the _fear_ that he must have had throughout it all. He’d sensed that her eyes had been closed-and indeed they had been, for the knowledge that everyone they’d known more intimately had been alive, or surely Mycroft would have said something, had only given her scant comfort-and her breathing had shifted. _His_ had done the same. “You don’t have _any_ idea, do you?” she’d told him suddenly, batting at his hand, before she’d kissed at the same spot firmly once and sent a fluttering through him like a leaf falling in reverse and as if something was being _grown_ instead.

_“I”-_ was all he’d managed as she’d peered up at him. His face had turned a dusky pink underneath her gaze.

“Would you have _really_ gone to your grave thinking that I do not appreciate you? Thinking that I wasn’t _grateful_ for every day that I have you in my life?” Mycroft had opened his mouth and then shut it again. “More to the point don’t _ever_ throw yourself away like that, not even for your brother.” She’d pressed his hand to her eyes for a moment and he’d tried to pull away, afraid that he’d hurt her more than he seemed to have done already. The sense that she genuinely appreciated him, for _him_ and not for simply what he could do for her baffled him and he’d felt unable to comprehend it. Did he _really_ have someone in his life? She’d begun to cry and he’d touched at her shoulder soothingly with his other hand.

“Get that down you,” he’d nodded at her glass.

She’d bowed her head in agreement and had finally released him. He’d made to go back around to the safety of Mrs. Hudson’s chair, but had hesitated when she’d sprung up suddenly, glass in hand and retreated towards the window that had overlooked the street. Her back had been to him.

_“F/N?”_

“I’m fine,” she’d said. He’d _known_ that, that wasn’t true and it had been further proved when her shoulders had shaken, but before he’d been able to comment on the fact or do anything about it she’d added, “Tell me the rest of it. What happened next?”

He’d studied her for a moment and had then obliged, telling her that he’d been knocked out with a tranquilizer dart, woken up to find that he was in Eurus’s cell with the dead governor and that he’d had _no_ idea about the whereabouts of Sherlock and John until it had all been over-a point which he’d somewhat glossed over in his re-telling, but which F/N hadn’t been fooled by and both his high-pitched tone and her general common sense had told her that he’d been _most_ worried by the fact-and Sherlock and John had worked out the final puzzle of what had happened to Victor-Sherlock’s friend when he’d been a child. It turned out that Eurus had killed him, as she’d wanted a best friend and so had taken Sherlock’s instead. She’d almost done the same again by flooding the well that she’d trapped John in. Sherlock had only managed to convince her to stop in time…

“And all these revelations happened _when_ exactly?” F/N had been trying to place it all and work it out in her mind in between shakily finishing her whisky and trying to come to terms with all the horror that had happened. What had she been doing when Mycroft had been going through all this? How _oblivious_ had she been? _Why_ hadn’t she been checking in with him more?

He’d felt himself growing hot again and had shifted his position. “You remember last night? How you were packing? I”-

“You phoned me really late, but I’d decided to just stay up and sleep on the plane if it came to it because I had a really early flight and I didn’t want to miss it. I kept going on about my day, the trip as a whole, how I was excited to be seeing you again”-she’d whirled around and her face had softened for a moment as she’d just looked at him-“But I didn’t ask you once about yours or what you had been doing. I assumed that everything was normal or you would have said…oh _Mycroft!”_ She’d made him jump. “I’m just as selfish as you told me I was!”

“No you’re not.” He’d placed his own nearly finished glass down upon the desk and approached her. She’d looked at him doubtfully. “In any case you’ve explained all of that,” he’d gone on gruffly, gesturing dismissively with his hand, before he’d taken her empty glass from her. He’d placed it on the edge of the desk, before they’d faced one another again.

“So…” She’d looked at him earnestly.

_“So…”_ He hadn’t known how to advance either.

“What’s going on now? Eurus is”-

“Eurus is back where she was. She hasn't been talking, but Sherlock seems to think that music might help to make a difference and would like to play the violin with her. Whether it will make any change to her overall demeanour or is just wishful thinking then we'll have to see. Either way it seems like Sherlock intends to put in an effort with her. Something, perhaps rightly, that Mummy doesn't seem to think that I've done.” He’d looked off to the side a little bitterly. She’d slipped part of her hand around his, understanding how he felt like the brother who was less when it came to it. He’d swung his head back to her and swallowed, _acutely_ aware of where their skin joined.

“Is she very cross with you?”

“She came by my office this morning." He'd run a hand through his hair. "That’s where the”-

“The grown up thing came from,” she’d interrupted him and as he’d nodded a new gleam had sprung into her eyes. “Is that where the thing about”-his eyebrows had furrowed at her hesitation-“About _me_ came from? About me taking you for granted and such?”

Mycroft had shifted guiltily for a moment. “It’s what prompted it, yes, although the thing has been stirring in my head for some time,” he’d bowed his head guiltily and F/N had regretted the earlier generous feelings that she’d had towards Mycroft’s mother. She should have _known_ better by that point. That age, especially when it came to Violet who sometimes burnt by her emotions alone, was not necessarily a sign of wisdom. 

“And _work?”_ she’d decided to change the subject.

“Work is holding an inquiry, even though they've known about the thing from the off and they'll probably end up covering it all up, but to keep up appearances...I suppose there's a _possibility_ that I might not be in my post for all that much longer,” he’d informed her. As he’d looked at her he’d wondered if she’d honestly be _fine_ with such a thing? Whether his entire family would be? Though, he’d thought regretfully, it wasn’t as if Sherlock or Eurus _needed_ him as much any more. 

“Then they'd be wrong to fire you and I don't think they will, but"- He’d startled when she’d brushed a stray piece of hair back from his forehead.

_“I”-_

“Are you going to go along with whatever happens? Or are you going to _use_ this opportunity to make a few changes of your own?” She’d stood back from him and had eyed him challengingly.

“I’m not sure that I”-

“Do you _really_ need this job as much as you thought?” she’d questioned him, the echo of his earlier thoughts seeming to have reached her. “Of course if you like it then that’s different,” she’d told him, “But if everything's out now and in hand for the most part”-

“You don't think I should stay in it?” He’d stepped towards her and she’d kept him at a bit of a distance by tidying up his tie.

_“No...”_ She’d smoothed his tie out and shaken her head. “I always thought that you were _meant_ to be in the same industry that I’m in,” her voice had gotten a little wistful, as all the additional adventures that they might have had, had danced through her mind. 

“I’m a bit too _old_ to be starting out as an actor,” he’d told her kindly. “Too comfortable as well I’m afraid to go living a life of hand to mouth. National treasures aren’t _made_ overnight.” His eyes had smiled at her. She’d blushed at the reminder of her earlier words and he’d delighted in the fact. A flower had grown and its leaves had spun across his heart.

“There are _other_ jobs that would suit you. An agent for one,” her voice had dipped.

Mycroft’s eyebrows had risen at that. His hand had caught her waist and pulled her a little closer. She hadn’t objected. On the contrary he’d noticed with interest that her pupils had _dilated._ He’d hardly _dared_ to believe in his luck, but had pushed the point anyway. “Would I be able to steal you away from Mrs. Hudson?” he’d asked her a little flirtatiously.

She’d bit on her bottom lip and swayed from side to side. _“Maybe.”_ Her eyes had sparkled somewhat mischievously.

He’d placed his second hand on her waist in order to still her movement. “Do you have any _other_ suggestions for my life?” his voice had turned husky.

“Just one.” She’d looked up at him as if she’d been steeling herself for something.

“What might that be?” He’d brushed a strand of hair tenderly back from her forehead.

She’d hesitated for a moment, before something had sparked in her eyes. She’d teetered up on her tiptoes, grabbed onto his shoulders and kissed him.

“Are you sure? You could have anyone.” Instead of responding he’d pulled away from her.

She’d groaned and bridged the gap between them. “You’re _not_ anyone and now that I’ve finally got my lips on yours would you _please_ be quiet?” His eyebrows had risen, but he’d been a little amused by the fact that all along she’d wanted _him._ No one else. Her hands had snaked around and had cupped his head to hers. When she’d kissed him again he’d returned the gesture and incited a bit of tongue, which had caused the sparks to flicker between them like dappling sunlight and made the rain that had gone before them disappear. She’d melted into him for a moment, before they’d separated once more. He’d felt light-headed and as if all the coherent thoughts in his mind had taken the day off. She’d appeared flushed, but good-natured. They’d stared at one another for a moment. Mycroft had wondered if it was real or just a fantasy-if the sun was there to stay or if it would go again? Logic had told him that it would be the latter. She’d seen such a thing and been about to say something, knowing that it would take _time_ for him to get used to the level of her feelings towards him since he hadn’t previously _believed_ them to be real after all and wanting him to know that it takes rain as well as sunlight in order to make something special and that he doesn’t _need_ to fear the former, but there had been a noise, followed by a clearing of someone’s throat by the door. They’d both looked and seen that it was Mrs Hudson back from her lunch. It wasn’t clear how much she’d witnessed, but going by the judgemental expression she’d had on her face it had been _enough._

“We were just er”- F/N had begun to clarify as if it hadn’t been obvious.

“Well, I better be going then,” Mycroft had said and F/N had looked relieved by his interruption.

“Yes, yes”-she’d run a hand through her hair-“I’ll give you a call.” She’d looked up at him imploringly. He’d nodded at that point, but before he’d been able to leave Mrs. Hudson had suddenly tutted.

“That’ll have to go on your fees.” She’d nodded at the whisky bottle and directed her words to F/N.

“I’ll replace it,” Mycroft had supplied, not wanting _F/N_ to be put out when it had been because of _him_ that they’d needed it after all.

“I can”-

“It’s fine,” he’d assured her and given her a somewhat tight smile. She’d looked at him uncertainly. Mycroft had wanted to kiss her once more, but there would be none of that in front of Mrs. Hudson he’d known and he wasn’t sure if F/N would have appreciated it in any case. He wasn’t sure if she was _one_ for public displays of affection or not. He’d never _seen_ her in a relationship before. At that thought something had growled inside him. He’d wanted to experience everything with her. To see all those new sides of her and be the _only_ one to do so. Apart from a softening of the eyes he’d maintained an even expression with her. “I better be off,” he’d gestured to the door. 

_“Myc”-_ F/N had nearly collided with Mrs. Hudson in her rush to catch him. He’d turned to her again and had found himself emitting a pleasant hum when she’d kissed him briefly, answering his earlier question for him and held their foreheads together. “Thank you for telling me,” she’d whispered, as so much had passed between them. 

He’d felt emotional about it all for a moment, but then she’d let go of him and he’d nodded at Mrs. Hudson, before he’d turned and made his way down the seventeen steps, albeit with a little _bounce_ to his walk.


	2. Sunshine and Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your support! ^^ It is so nice to know that people still enjoy my Mycroft stories! :D 
> 
> I will be continuing this, posting as and when additional ideas come to me. They will be moments and scenes from the lives of Mycroft and Reader, so might not necessarily be in order the entire time, though they will be for the moment-with this chapter starting the same day as the first-and I will point out when they are not. 
> 
> I am enjoying writing this, so I hope that you will also enjoy reading.
> 
> The next three chapters will be linked by a particular theme. Can you spot it?

Mycroft had called her, doing so precisely thirty-seconds, before she’d been about to ring him from her location on the settee and with the sort of premonition that she’d envied him for. Of course Mycroft had dismissed her praise and had politely told her that it was to save on her phone bill. He’d called her in a break from working in his study at home. 

“So, dinner then?” she’d suggested once their initial conversation had been over with. It hadn’t taken long. There wasn’t much for either one of them to catch up on after all, having just seen one another that day. “You could come around to mine?” There had been a bit of a pause at that point and she’d been able to tell that Mycroft had been thinking about something. 

“Isn’t it polite for the _man_ to host and cook at these things? Or we could go out to a restaurant? I could pay or we could go halves, whatever you’d be most comfortable with?” He’d known that she’d probably want to contribute somehow, not only because she was working, but because it was in her nature to do such a thing.

_“I”-_

“But having just gotten back you’d probably find it nicer to be at home?” he’d interpreted smoothly for her. He’d flipped over a page of his work absentmindedly. 

“It _would_ be nice,” she’d admitted after a degree of hesitation. “And I don’t _mind_ cooking. Is there anything in particular that you feel like at the moment? Maybe something that you haven’t had for a long while?” She’d fidgeted with the fabric on the leather settee.

“Sirloin steak marinated with honey,” Mycroft had spoken quickly without thinking, “I think there was something else in the marinade. It’s probably a little complicated though. I only mention it because Mummy used to make it when I was a teenager."

"I remember."

"You don’t have to make it though. I could come over to yours and cook or we could order something in? All _kinds_ of restaurants do take out these days, you know?” 

“Oh no, I’d _love_ to make that for you,” she’d breathed, suddenly determined and Mycroft had known better than to protest. “Is tomorrow all right?” 

“That would be wonderful as long as that’s what would suit you.”

“Around seven then?”

“Seven.” It had been decided.

*

In spite of F/N’s _want_ to make the meal the idea of doing steak had terrified her. She hadn’t known how Mycroft normally liked it for one thing and for another she’d never made it before. She’d gone on the Internet to find a recipe and decide on her best options as soon as they’d hung up with one another. 

Mycroft might not have had the pressure of _cooking,_ but he’d thought of the steak issue only a little sooner than F/N had. He’d satisfied himself with the idea that F/N would probably text him about the matter and that at least he’d hear from her again soon. He’d also had to consider what to wear-F/N had seen him in so many of his suits before, he hadn’t wanted her to think that he _wasn’t_ making an effort and had wanted to wear something that was a _little_ bit different-and what to take with him. Would F/N prefer flowers or wine? [Red, if he went for the wine, to go with what they would be eating.] The wine they would be able to share together, but the flowers would last longer, be only for her and leave hopefully a good reminder of the night. Of course the night could always go _poorly…_

In the end, and feeling terribly uncertain about the thing, he’d decided to take _both_ with him. That way at least he hopefully wouldn’t be letting her down as soon as he arrived on her doorstep. He’d put in an order with a florist that he’d used in the past when congratulating F/N on getting a part or on the night of one of her premieres. That he’d done himself, not wanting to delegate such an important thing to his secretary and wanting to keep things private between them-they hadn’t _yet_ discussed how open they intended to be. As for the wine he’d made a mental note to take a Merlot from his _own_ collection.  
All throughout his work the following day there had been no follow-up text from F/N about the steak and he’d felt a little puzzled about it all. Should _he_ be the one to text her? Should he maybe go as far-he hated texting if he could help it after all-to give her a call and make sure that everything was still all right for that evening? He could slide the information about the steak into the dialogue somewhere or maybe she’d be prompted by his phone call to ask. Maybe he should _also_ be asking her whether there was anything that he could bring. But what if there _was?_ He hadn’t had much time to get it by that point and he so badly hadn’t wanted to risk letting her down. He’d gone back and for on the issue for the entire day, before it had been too late and he’d had to go home and get ready.

*

The steak, though relatively uncomplicated as the recipe had been, had _still_ tested F/N’s ability as a cook. She was an actress. She was _used_ to eating out as part of a meeting or just getting something quickly. She wasn’t used to making large meals for herself, let _alone_ other people. Mycroft was used to dining out too, more than likely with posher people than she was acquainted with. He must have eaten a few stylishly made and tasty meals in his time, she’d thought to herself, not to mention that he had this youthful memory around this steak and that had only _added_ to the pressure that she’d felt. How would she be able to compete with his _mother?_ Though the meal should, she’d reassured herself, at least be better than all the times he’d just gotten himself something to eat and sat in his lonely kitchen to devour it. _That,_ she’d wanted to make sure of. Otherwise she really _was_ failing. She still hadn’t been able to _believe_ that she’d managed to be so immune from his suffering all that time and had wanted to do better. She _would_ be there for him. A person that he was able to depend upon-

The doorbell had rung and she’d scurried from the kitchenette that ran halfway down one side of the living area to buzz Mycroft in. She’d moved more central to the door and had brushed her hair and had _wished_ that she’d had time to splash a little cold water on her face, before she’d answered it. She’d felt ever so hot. She’d smoothed down the dark blue dress that she’d chosen to wear-though it had felt suddenly tight and uncomfortable and like she wouldn’t be able to sit down, whilst she was wearing it-and had waited, wondering if she should open the door wide or whether that would rob Mycroft of any last minute preparations that he might want to make. Before she’d had a chance to decide there had come a tentative little knock on the door. Aware that it would be Mycroft she’d swallowed, before she’d opened it. A natural smile had taken over her face as she’d seen him there, whilst he’d taken in one of the smells that had reminded him of his youth, that of the steaks, which had already been marinated by that point in honey, garlic and soy sauce. 

“You look splendid,” he’d assured her and she’d felt pleased.

“Thank you. So do you. Is this something new?” She’d touched at the material of his jacket as she’d leant forwards to kiss his cheek. The jacket had been velvety in quality and almost lilac with a grey collar. He’d paired it with some pinstripe trousers, a white shirt and a dark, skinny tie.

“Just thought I’d try something. Do you like it?” His Adam’s apple had bobbed nervously when she’d pulled away from him and his skin had burnt _hot_ in the place that she’d touched it. The heat had spread from the area like ripples from an epicentre. His nose had tried to decipher the exact scent of her perfume because he hadn’t smelt it on her before. Unbeknownst to him it was a blend of jasmine, cedar and amber. 

“Of course,” she’d reassured him and he’d finally revealed the wine and flowers. “Oh Mycroft, you shouldn’t have! They’re _gorgeous.”_ She’d beamed at the sight of the flowers-orange roses, orange calla lily, peach roses, ivory cymbidium orchids, wax flowers and gypsophila-which had been a little speckled with the rain that had been steadily falling outside. Mycroft’s heart had flipped happily in the knowledge that he’d done something right. “Is that a Merlot?” He’d nodded, pleased that she’d recognized it, as he’d been trying to educate her about wine for some time. “One of my favourites.” She’d been happy and had touched at his arm and he hadn’t been able to help but notice that, that had been the _second_ time that she’d touched him, the third if you counted the kiss. His skin had shivered and given him away a little. “Do you mind just getting the flowers settled in some water for me, whilst I”-there had come an alarming sizzle from behind her and the wonderful, past-evoking smell for Mycroft had flared and flowed through to him all the more-“Oh no! The dinner! I thought it was all right!” F/N had panicked and had turned on her heel. 

Mycroft, worried about her sudden fretfulness, had hurriedly entered the apartment and put the wine and flowers on the end of the kitchen island for a moment. He’d ignored the circular table that they would be eating around that was by that point further down the main living area and behind him, the leather settee that was parked in front of a window at the far end and facing a medium-sized, flat screen television, which was neatly tucked away in its shelves, more of which were on the side of the settee, whilst on its other side a slim lamp sat on the end table and even the message board that was littered with reminders [a few old that should be removed since she’d returned from being away] the odd photograph [one of the pair of them, their faces a little close and blurry, a singular source of circular light behind them, making their faces look weirdly ethereal] and the odd film or music ticket stub as he’d gone to join her in the mostly white and brown furnished apartment. F/N had been lifting up the pan, which had been full of the chopped pieces of steak-one side of them had already been done-a little worriedly and anxious that she might burn herself Mycroft had carefully reached around her with one hand upon her waist to ensure that she remained steady, whilst he’d dialled the knob back a little. “Not to worry,” he’d told her, “I find that everything is usually all right if I turn the heat down.”

“I did it just before you _came,”_ she’d taken the failure personally as she’d put the pan carefully back down again.

“Then your instincts were on the right track. Talking about the steak I meant to ask you something-why didn’t you check with me about how I like it?” She’d muttered something about how it would have made her feel foolish to do such a thing at that point and had appeared close to tears. “Not as if we don’t know one another. I wouldn’t have judged you. Steak is a very _personal_ thing.” He’d jostled at her side lightly. “How about you stop putting too much pressure on yourself and let me help you, hm?” She’d nodded, before she’d leant back into him a little for further reassurance and he’d pecked at her hair kindly. “Although you’re doing it _much_ better than I ever could.”

“You’re too generous.” She’d blushed and had pulled away from him.

They’d wandered over to where he’d left the flowers and wine at one end of the kitchen island. He’d fetched a vase-picked it off one of the shelves that had knickknacks, photos and the odd award on and wondered at the dust whether he should suggest that a cleaner should come in whenever F/N’s away and if it was convenient, but he hadn’t, in the end, made reference to such a thing-whilst she’d sorted out the flowers and they’d _both_ kept an eye on the dinner. 

The steak had ended up well-cooked, which he’d approved of and as she’d served it with homemade chunky chips, salad and a garnish, which F/N had confessed was shop bought, he’d poured the wine and placed the glasses on to the white tablecloth that she had draped over the table. Some of the flowers had been put into a smaller, transparent vase in its centre, flanked by two candles, which she’d lit earlier on. He hadn’t been disappointed with any part of the meal. On the contrary, as they’d sat down, he’d found that everything had gone together _perfectly._

They’d started to speak tentatively about their days. Mycroft had allowed F/N to go first-she’d taken the day off, as she’d only just returned from being away and would be working in a London studio during the following one. [She hadn’t admitted that she’d spent the majority of the day preparing and worrying for that evening so it hadn’t exactly been restful.]  
Mycroft had been a little coy when it had come to his _own_ day, before he’d confessed that he’d given his month’s notice at his government job.

“Oh Mycroft, that’s _wonderful!”_ she’d been a little breathless with the thrill of it all and had even gotten up and gone around to give him a kiss on the cheek. Mycroft had hummed and had pretended that he hadn’t been pleased when in reality he’d been incredibly so. “As long as you think it is of course.” She’d scrutinized him carefully after she’d gone back to sit down.

He’d hummed again, before he’d elaborated, “Yes, I feel lighter than I’ve done in a while actually.” He’d picked up his glass and had tapped it against hers. She’d beamed at him.

They’d gone on to reminisce about incidents in their past. Mostly funny tales, which had included Sherlock. They’d both side-stepped around the issue of announcing their relationship and what Mycroft’s family would think about it all. F/N was a mostly friendless orphan, so that wasn’t a problem for her. Though it made her _sad_ to imagine what her parents might have made of her getting together with someone who had been so much a part of her life and who _already_ meant a great deal to her, those feelings weren’t for that night, but another one, another _time._ They tried to keep things light and cordial. 

Eventually their plates had emptied, leaving mostly only traces of the garnish and the occasional chip, which they’d been too full to eat. Their wine had been sipped and F/N had topped it up and blown out the candles, before suggesting that they head to sit down. Mycroft had said something about doing the washing up, but F/N had waved a hand with a fond smile and said that she’d take care of it later. The tension had flickered between them again as Mycroft had followed her to the settee, easily avoiding a chair that was sticking out a little because he’d known the layout of her apartment almost as well as she had.

They’d sat on opposite ends to begin with, before they’d laughed a little at how silly they were being and had slid closer to the middle. How often had they sat on the settee together with little to no awkwardness? F/N had wondered. Yet since they were able to kiss and touch-though neither of them had known how _far_ the other was willing to take things at that point-the set-up between them had changed and the potential that had always been close to the surface had been dangerously so. The fact that the area was only dimly lit had seemed to exaggerate the feeling and yet it would have felt wrong, and as if they were under some sort of examination, to have the lights on too much as well. 

She’d felt as if she was fumbling things, so she’d taken the conversation back to the safer subject of Sherlock and their past, as Mycroft’s knees had turned towards her. When she’d finally gone dry and he hadn’t seemed to know what to say either she’d switched the television on and they’d darted from channel to channel for a while, taking in the news, the end of a live theatre performance and half of a David Attenborough documentary. F/N had slowly gotten closer to him. Mycroft had remarked about how God’s voice would surely sound like Attenborough’s and had tried not to notice. He’d been compliant and had curled a couple of fingers around F/N’s hand, as she’d placed it experimentally behind his own. When her head had dropped down to his shoulder, however, he’d looked at her.

“Is this all right?” She’d blinked sleepily at him. It wasn’t like they _hadn’t_ been in this position before. F/N had rested her head on his shoulder. He had even done it to _her_ one time, though she wasn’t aware of the thing, and the memory had caused him to pinken. She’d even invited him to rest his head on her lap one time when he’d been tired from his work. [He hadn’t done it for very long as things had soon grown awkward between them.] There was something different about doing it with a romantic _partner,_ however. Whilst he would have stopped and checked F/N’s feelings and intentions if she’d ever made any advancement on those previous times he hadn’t known _what_ would happen that night.

_“Yes,”_ he’d chanced it. They were both perfectly capable adults after all. He wasn’t afraid. He was _terrified._

F/N must have sensed some of what was going on in his interior, for she’d lifted her head properly off his shoulder and looked at him in contemplation. “You will stop me, won’t you?” she’d asked. “If I ever do anything that you’re uncomfortable with?”

He’d peered down at her. “If you do the same?” She’d nodded, but it had been a little absentmindedly. _“F/N?”_ she’d jumped a little at his firmer tone and Mycroft had winced regretfully, before he’d tilted her chin up with two of his fingers. “You must tell me. I’m terribly scared of getting all of this wrong,” he’d told her. “I might get a little carried away sometimes.” She’d blushed. “I’m not used to… _this.”_ He’d looked away from her and fidgeted a little with his cuffs.

She’d pecked at his cheek. “Stay the night,” the words had come out of her suddenly, but she hadn’t wished they hadn’t. He’d looked at her in alarm, as if he’d wondered if she’d heard _anything_ of what he’d just said. “I don’t mean”-her face had gone a furious red-“Just that”-she’d fidgeted with her dress incessantly, before Mycroft had clasped her hand in his to stop all her motion-“It would be like old times.” Finally she’d looked at him. “When I stayed over at your family’s house.” Her eyes had been a little shiny and pleading. “We could talk and finish off the rest of the wine. Its been a long time since we’ve had the chance to spend so much of an evening together without one of us having to go back again and it’s much better than you having to go out in _this.”_ She’d tossed her head towards the window, which they’d been able to hear the rain still pattering against. 

“And what about your reputation?” he’d asked her a little severely although the proposition had sorely tempted him.

_“My”-_ she’d begun and would have no doubt followed it on with a dismissal of how famous she had been if she hadn’t have frozen, her mind going back to his angry words about her _not_ calling him that. “I should”- She’d begun to wriggle away from him, scared that she’d ruined the moment.

“I’m yours,” he’d said the thing matter-of-factly and bowed his head. He’d swept up her hand and kissed the back of it. He’d gone on to show the same level of devotion to her lips a couple of times and she’d wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him close. 

“I don’t mind getting a reputation with you,” she’d announced a little breathily. 

He’d snorted and tapped her on the nose, before he’d looked at her all the more seriously. “But if people”-

“What about _you?”_ A thought had suddenly occurred to her. “If people know about us, will it”-

“I don’t _have_ a reputation,” he’d told her, but his voice had been a little on edge and as he’d looked away from her a muscle had throbbed in his jaw and she’d worried that the evening and conversation might be over with and she’d messed up the second chance that he’d given her. “If people know me then it’s as a minor government official.” He’d swung his head back to her and had seemed to contemplate something. She hadn’t known what to say. “I’ll stay,” he’d concluded.

“You’re sure?”

His face had softened as he’d seemed to realize the effect that his words and behaviour had, had on her. “Mm.” 

She’d poured them more wine and they’d stayed off the grass of talking about the complications other people and their jobs might bring to their relationship. 

Eventually there had stopped being anything noticeable on the TV, their conversation had hit another dip and just after she’d let out a bit of a yawn F/N had suggested that they should retire for the night.

There had come the matter of where they might sleep. Mycroft had said that he’d be fine on the settee, but F/N had shaken her head tiredly, gone through the dividing wooden doors with their cloudy slits of glass that Mycroft had known had led to her bedroom and begun to drag the camp bed free from where it had been tucked between the side of her wall and the wardrobe. Mycroft had helped drag it down by the side of her bed and blow a little bit of dust from it. He’d stepped back and watched from the door, however, as she’d drawn the sheet and spare duvet over it, knowing from his experiences with his mother that it was best to allow _her_ to get on with that part of things and not interfere. She’d pulled the pillows that she hadn’t been using on her own bed [Mycroft _had_ protested at that point, but she had assured him that it was fine] and laid them neatly at the top of the camp bed. She’d then taken a step back and had inspected her work dubiously. “Will you be warm enough? I can add a blanket?” 

“It’s more than fine,” he’d reassured her, stepping across carefully and holding her to him from behind. “Is this-?”

“Mm.” They’d shared a kiss, before F/N had looked to him as if for further instruction.

“I’ll let you get changed and use the facilities first.”

“All right.” She’d tucked back some of his hair. 

He’d shot her a brief smile and had looked back at her, before he’d departed from the room. 

By the time that he’d declared that he was about to head back into the room and was half-changed she’d _long_ since been under the covers of her bed. 

“Okay,” she’d said that all was fine. 

He’d padded in there, still in his white shirt, but with his jacket, tie and trousers already off and his feet bare. His eyes had only darted to her briefly, before they’d seemed intent on the floor as he’d navigated around to the camp bed, so she hadn’t said anything. She'd noticed the bottom of black boxer shorts as they'd peeked out from beneath his white shirt and his legs, however, before she'd looked away again. He had _fantastic_ legs. She was envious of them as they were _much_ better than hers.  
He’d snuck under the duvet of the camp bed and she’d tried not to smile too hard as he’d taken the shirt off beneath it, revealing part of an arm when he’d tossed it towards the bottom of the camp bed. He’d cleared his throat a moment later.

“I’m ready,” he’d declared.

“I _told_ you not to wash up,” she’d kept the conversation on a lighter path and had batted one of her pillows playfully at him. Suddenly less self-conscious than he had been he’d tossed it back up to her with a light smile.

“Seemed a waste of time not to,” he’d uttered as he’d gotten more comfortable and she’d drawn the pillow that he’d just touched beneath her head and had looked down at him. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you.”

They’d spoken for a bit longer, but the conversation had slowly started to peter out as the light had gotten switched off. They’d gradually fallen asleep, their bodies turned towards one another and as close to each other as they’d been able to be in their separate beds. 

*

F/N had woken up around half-past three. She’d sensed that everything was different, but for a moment she hadn’t known _why._ Then she’d remembered about Mycroft. She’d felt a tentative trill of excitement run through her, before it had been quickly replaced when she’d heard a strange noise. Her heart had begun to pound at the thought of someone breaking into her apartment on the night when Mycroft was there. She’d worried that her telling him to stay was about to get him killed and even if he had only been _injured_ would he ever forgive her? She’d heard the noise again. She’d been able to identify it that time-it hadn’t been an intruder at all, but had rather come from the camp bed. Mycroft must have made it. Even though it had been so strange, so ethereal and almost inhuman, filled with a level of pain that she’d never heard before. Yet it had gotten _worse-_

“Sherlock…Eu-Eurus…Sh-Sherlock, _no!”_ He’d jolted upright, as he’d slammed awake and she’d heard the sudden creak of movement. As her heart had gone crazy she’d switched on the light. Mycroft’s head had spun around so fast that she’d thought she’d done the wrong thing and that he was going to injure himself.

“It’s me! It’s _me!”_ She’d held up her hands with her palms facing him.

He’d gone a little less rigid, but had looked away from her. She’d watched the rise and fall of his body for a moment. “I should have warned you. I shouldn’t have stayed. I’ll leave.”

_“Wait,”_ F/N had said just as Mycroft had reached for his shirt. He’d slipped it on, but hadn’t done it up or made to move any further. “Did you have a nightmare because you’re in a different bed?” she’d tried to understand.

Mycroft had shaken his head. “Its been happening every night since…” 

_“Sherrinford?”_ F/N had concluded.

“Mm.” Mycroft’s eyes had been down on the duvet.

“I know it hasn't been much time since then, but is there anything that you normally do when they happen?" she’d asked. 

Mycroft had let out a little sigh. “It depends on what time it is. I might get up, get a glass of water maybe, sometimes I”- he’d looked up at her, about to say that occasionally he could get back to sleep again, but one glance at her had told him that she would have _known_ that to be a lie. 

“So you work?” she’d concluded for him. 

“Mm,” Mycroft had admitted as he’d bowed his head. He’d begun to fidget with the duvet.

“And probably go back over the nightmare…” He hadn’t said anything to that. “I-I know that this will probably sound trite and meaningless right now”-he’d looked at her-“It does to me sometimes when _I’ve_ had one, but I try and tell myself that it’s just a way of me processing something. That as painful and upsetting as it might have been”-his eyes had honed in on her, he hadn’t _liked_ to think of her going through a nightmare on her own, especially if they were anywhere near the level of the ones he had-“It’s _necessary”-_

“Like sunshine and rain?”

“Yes, _exactly.”_ She’d looked pleased. “Have you ever appreciated the dawn more because of a nightmare?” He hadn’t, but thought that he might later on that morning. The intent way that he’d ended up looking at her, however, had made F/N feel a little bit uncomfortable. “Well anyway, do you-do you think that you’ll be able to go back to sleep tonight? If I can make you comfortable or distract you enough?” He’d looked at her. She’d tentatively flipped her _own_ duvet back and Mycroft had swallowed at the sight of her in her f/c pyjamas, before he’d looked away with a bit of a blush upon his face. She’d quickly slid down and pulled the duvet that he’d been using partially around her. His scent had been _everywhere._ Mycroft had thought the same about _hers_ in that moment. She’d lied down and looked at him. “I don’t mind leaving the light on if you need to”-

_“Mm.”_ Mycroft had moved suddenly down to be beside her. She’d blinked and her eyes had watered momentarily as Mycroft had kicked at her leg as he’d settled down. “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right.” She’d brushed a strand of hair tenderly away from his forehead. He’d put a hand tentatively on her hip. She’d buried her way beneath his chin and he’d fallen asleep as he’d held her. His breath had finally evened out.

After that night the camp bed hadn’t come into the equation again and whenever it had been too late for one of them to go home they’d slept like that. Mycroft’s nightmares hadn’t stopped, but he’d felt more at peace as long as F/N’s heart beat was in close range to him.


	3. A Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More insight into Mycroft's nightmares.

When Mycroft had opened his eyes he’d nearly closed them again, as he’d wondered how he had not awoken much sooner. 

He had been in Eurus’s cell and the light had almost _blinded_ him. 

He’d let out a whimper and had shifted himself on to all fours, his silvery-blue tie dangling down and his grey three-piece suit contracting as his body had shivered and he’d hunched over ever so slightly. His long fingers had pressed into the cold, slippery floor as if it were a lifeline. When the lights had flickered he’d almost called out. 

_That’s_ when he’d become aware of a figure behind him. 

With every nerve ending on edge he’d slowly, and not without a swallow of courage or two, given a peek over his shoulder. 

A cry had escaped his lips and he’d nearly fallen over, before he’d calmed himself and placed a hand upon his heart. 

Of course it had been just the governor’s body-a frightful thing to behold, but since he’d witnessed the death earlier nothing to be really all _that_ alarmed about. More worrying was the fact that Sherlock and John were no longer there. His mind had fretfully speculated about their whereabouts and state of health. The grim idea of telling Mummy about Eurus and having to _add_ that Sherlock was no longer with them had him breaking out into a cold sweat and his heart palpitating, the anxiety about losing Sherlock and having another failure high inside him. 

He’d shivered properly as he’d risen to his feet, but his mind had told him that it would do no good to worry, that he had to have a _plan._ That it was silly to worry about the other two until he could get out of there.

_Then,_ as he’d looked around for a possible exit, he’d noticed something _strange_ about the governor’s body. The clothes were right, but they seemed suddenly too big for him and as if they had been on a smaller body.

Mycroft had simply frowned at the problem for a moment. He’d crouched down.

Beneath the governor’s hair he’d seemed to see the colour of another. He’d moved closer to it and had still been in a low position. A whimper had left him as he’d reached towards the top of the head, then a yell as several woodlice had scurried free as he’d peeled back a wig. He’d tossed it aside. Familiar h/c hair had tumbled out and he’d jolted forwards and grabbed on to the shoulders of the body. He hadn’t _cared_ if there were more insects in that moment.

_“F/N!”_ his breathless in-dream cry and the feeling of the walls, as they’d closed in on him and all his small, future hopes-though they had been large enough to him-as they’d slid down them, had been enough to wake him in reality.

He’d sat up in bed and had panted for a moment, before he’d looked instinctively off to the side. It had been too dark to see, his eyes not yet at the point where they had been able to pick out shapes and so his hand had felt desperately on the other side of the bed instead, only being a _little_ careful.

He hadn’t found what he’d wanted however and so with a little growl of irritation he’d swung back around to his side and switched on the bedside lamp.

He’d had a fleeting moment of panic when he’d realized that there was no one else there, before he’d remembered that F/N was away filming and his heart had started to calm down. It hadn’t remained that way for _long,_ however, for just because F/N was _filming_ hadn’t meant that she was safe. On the contrary it was _day_ where she was so presumably she was moving about-there might have been an accident or she might have been filming that ridiculously dangerous chase scene in the desert that he’d wanted her stunt double to do at all costs, but which she’d stubbornly insisted on doing herself. He still hadn’t thought that, that character had particularly suited her. As her agent by that point-he’d bought the office from Mrs. Hudson in a romantic gesture of owning the place where F/N and he had sorted out their differences and first kissed, implemented security and re-named it the Umbrella Agency-he’d tried to exert his authority and steer her away from that role all the more, but she’d been adamant about accepting and doing as much of her own stunts as her insurance would allow her to. [“I’m going and it will be _fine!”_ had been what she’d tried to conclude their argument with as she’d packed. He’d followed it up by saying, _again,_ that he hadn’t wanted her to get hurt, which was as far as he’d been able to reveal that the idea of losing her terrified him and had tried to persuade her that there would be _better_ roles for her in the future. She’d refuted such a thing with her age.] If she was hurt, however…if he should have persisted _more-_

The nightmare still fresh in his mind he’d rung her from his bed. It had gone to voice mail, so he’d tried again.

_“F/N?”_ he’d emitted in a needy gasp as soon as the phone had been answered-far more clingy than he would have liked. There had been a bit of a pause and his body had _cringed_ as soon as he’d realized what had happened. 

“F/N’s a bit busy with filming at the moment. I’m her make-up artist. Can I take a message?”

Mycroft had fought back a response about how F/N hadn’t _needed_ any make-up, knowing that F/N would have told him that, that’s just part of the process and character as she had been doing for years by that point, before he’d uttered, “Um, no, that won’t be necessary. If you could just tell her that I’ve rung? It’s er, her agent, Mycroft Holmes. She doesn’t have to ring me back. I’ll try again later. I just wanted to check in with her, that’s all.” 

“Of course,” the voice on the other end had been a little _too_ knowing and it had been a relief to Mycroft to click off.

F/N obviously hadn’t been dead or injured, he’d thought, as he’d rested the mobile phone on his bedside cabinet and settled down into bed. He’d felt a little embarrassed about his earlier thoughts and had hoped that she wouldn’t think _too_ poorly of him. He’d dwelt on _that_ fact for a long while and what he might do in an attempt to correct it if she had done, but had been close to sleep once more, his body pulling his mind under, when his phone had rung loudly in the otherwise quiet night. 

He’d jumped and had reached towards it automatically. All his earlier fears had rushed back to him as he’d done such a thing and his hand had trembled as it had curled around his phone.

_“Hello?”_ his voice had been hushed-he’d caught sight of the fact that it had been F/N on the other end and that had filled his mind with foreboding.

_“My?_ Is everything all right? It _is_ the middle of the night there.” 

His heart had flipped pleasantly at hearing her voice and he’d _marvelled_ at his ability to do such a thing, so there had been a delay in him speaking. In the end he’d tried to downplay his reaction to her when he’d told her, “Yes, I was still up and going through some paperwork actually, so thought I’d give you a call as your agent. I just wanted to check in. See how things are going for you there.”

There had been a bit of a pause on the line and Mycroft’s heart had trembled like fruit in a breeze, as he’d waited to see if F/N had cottoned on to him or not. If she had then would she be _annoyed_ at him for lying? 

“It’s going well,” she’d been a little hesitant, but had chosen to go along with things and Mycroft hadn’t known whether to be relieved or disappointed. “We’re just setting up another shot of me running in the desert-you were right, it’s a tricky thing to do-so I’ve got plenty of time if you want to talk and _not_ just as my agent.” So she _had_ seen through him after all. Mycroft’s stomach had flipped.

“Er, I”-

“Did you have another nightmare?” her voice had been hushed and had softened ever so slightly, as if she might have moved further to one side in order to talk to him more privately.

He’d felt embarrassed and had scrubbed at his jaw, worried about what a _burden_ he might be becoming to her. How often would she tolerate being awoken or going through phone calls like this, before she got bored of him? “I hope I didn’t inconvenience your make-up artist?” he’d said as a way of changing the subject if she’d wanted to follow him down that line.

“You’re not getting in the way of _either_ one of us,” she’d told him quietly, but sternly, and he’d realized, as she’d read him again, that she was almost becoming fluent in the language of Mycroft Holmes.

“In that case then _yes,_ I had another nightmare,” he’d revealed to her.

“What was it about?” 

He’d explained it to her, including the addition of her in it and how that part had never occurred before. “I’m not quite sure what it means,” he’d concluded awkwardly, almost wishing that he’d just let the entire thing be.

There had been silence on the line for a moment, before F/N had told him, “That’s up for interpretation, but I worry about you _too_ y’know? I-I miss you.” They’d both swallowed as the tenderness of their feelings had come into view more plainly. Mycroft had sensed that her face had been as red as his, maybe even _more_ so considering where she had been. “I don’t-I mean I _wanted_ to do this role, but I don’t like the way that you’re so unhappy about it. I’d much rather have left you with a kiss, before I’d gone and not all this _awkward_ feeling...” He’d sensed her free hand running through her hair-years of friendship, before they’d turned into lovers re-enforcing what she might do in a moment like that one in his mind. Sensed too that her make-up might be in need of a tidy-up, before her next shot. 

In an attempt to keep her from crying he’d murmured, “Maybe you could do that when you get back? I mean if you feel that way inclined?” His neck had been hot and she’d laughed briefly in a fond manner at his words.

“Mm, I’d like that, and in the meantime”- she’d been thoughtful.

_“Yes?”_

“I’d like you to try and remember what we’ve been taking about. How it takes”-

“Rain, as much as the sun to move through things,” he’d re-called.

“Yep, that’s right and to make something special,” she’d sounded relieved that they were on the same page. There had been a bit of a pause, before she’d gone on to ask him, “What are you thinking of doing now? Do you think that you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft had wanted to tell her that since he’d spoken to her he was sure that sleep would be able to come more easily to him, but had felt certain that if he’d tried to then the words wouldn’t have come out in the way he’d wanted them to-being affectionate with her was _still_ something that he had to work on.

“All right.” F/N had seemed to understand. “I’ll let you go then.”

“I’ll see you when you get back?” Mycroft had hoped that she’d _never_ let him go.

“Of course. I’ll say goodnight then.”

“I hope the filming goes well.”

“It will.” She was determined to do her best so that he wouldn’t worry about her.

_“And_ that you’re taking care of yourself?” he’d checked. 

“I am,” she’d confirmed, “I’m drinking more water since I went dry on the phone with you yesterday.”

“That’s a relief to hear.” She’d given a little cough. “Though maybe”-

“I’m _fine_ My,” she’d been quick to reassure him.

“All right.” He’d known that he’d had to trust her. “See you soon.”

“Night My.” He’d let the last remnants of her voice settle on the line, before he’d disconnected the call.

He’d settled back down into bed, the thought of her filming, the sun bright behind her, the desert stretching on and on and had felt a prickle of discomfort, before he’d reminded himself that it was rare that it was like that _really_ -the sprawl of the city was taking over _everywhere_ these days. 

He’d snorted to himself as he’d been able to hear F/N telling him off for being too inside his head again and then had relaxed _deeply_ as he’d been able to imagine the gentle weight of her head upon his chest.

The invisible scent of her had sent him off to sleep.


	4. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support! ^^
> 
> This chapter is a bit different and set largely in late forties and early fifties America. I hope that you enjoy it. :)

She’d once asked why he’d done it? _Why,_ instead of being co-operative and refusing to answer questions like, _‘Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?’_ he had not tried to clear his name and had let things get so far that he was cited for contempt of Congress for refusing to testify before the House Un-American Activists Committee and then forced to appear at a trial, one that had still been ongoing at that point. If not for himself and for the reputation of his family and the small, independent studio that they had run-his mother had been at its head and a producer, his father had made the occasional programme, but had mostly supported Violet in any way that had been possible, their youngest son Sherlock had been getting into the stunt industry and their daughter Eurus was an actress whose main drama had been found in her personal life-then for the career of a director, which he’d only just started.

Mycroft had offered her a somewhat crooked smile at that. It had been dawn in the bedroom of the small apartment and they had been lying on their sides facing one another, as the dust motes in her room had started to become illuminated and his bare shoulders had looked particularly broad outlined in the light. He’d brushed a strand of h/c hair tenderly away from her forehead and gone on to run a smooth, large palm down the side of her face. “I’m not the _only_ one who appears to be taking a stand,” he’d murmured.

She’d blushed and held his hand to her as she’d been reminded of the _‘Red Channels,’_ pamphlet that had been published the previous day. Her name had been identified as one of a hundred and fifty one people in the entertainment industry who were apparently either, ‘red fascists’ or who sympathized with such people. She’d felt gutted like one of the fish that Mrs. Hudson, her landlady and a British woman who had come to America with her late husband, but who had lived there on her own for many years by that point, sometimes brought home for their tea and had cried-her exhaustion because of her worry over Mycroft had _added_ to the weight of her feelings. They’d been so careful. Neither of them had told their families or friends of their relationship. He’d told her to stay away from anything that had to do with the trial, to not even _speak_ of it. Yet it seemed to her as if all the authorities had _still_ suspected where her heart had really lay and what was just as bad was the fact that she might never work again.  
The only _good_ thing about the pamphlet was that it had meant that Mycroft and her hadn’t had to hide any more. He’d been able to come over to her apartment and as they’d re-united it had been as if her brain had been working on a plan and one that she’d confided in Mycroft during their lovemaking. “I can’t just let the way they’re treating me slide…because”-she’d absentmindedly smoothed some of his hair back in the present, he’d had it cut a little shorter for the trial, but some strands had still liked to hang down in memory of the curl that had once draped down across his forehead and it was still a matter of some _shame_ to her that she’d almost cried when he’d revealed his new look-“Because it’s not right.” She’d swept her hand away and he’d kissed it on its way there. “People should be able to talk and join whatever groups they want to in this country. What’s the point of having the First Amendment right otherwise?” Her hand had settled on his hip at the end of her indignant tirade and he’d inched a little closer to her. “As long as no harm comes to anyone from the _existence_ of those groups of course,” she’d added quickly. 

“Therein lies the problem I’m afraid,” he’d told her, “The ‘Red Scare’ has grown so large that is hard for people to measure the threat that it might pose, if any, and how does one measure harm in the _first_ place? Some could argue that with the panic its caused alone it has been enough to stir up people’s brains and cause them irreversible damage.”

“But the panic has been stirred up _within_ American communities mostly, hasn't it? Not by the people who they _claim_ to be doing the damage?” She’d swallowed.

“Mm. They are afraid that they are going to lose the American way of life to certain groups.” He’d still fussed with her hair and perhaps the memory of the few tears she’d shed yesterday had not been far from the surface of his mind. “In keeping with that I don’t think they are going to stop until they have smeared my family, which they can do so through me if I let them.” He’d taken a heavy breath. Her eyes had grown shiny and desperate. Why did _he_ have to be the one to make such a sacrifice? He’d murmured something indistinguishable at that point, before he’d petted at her hair soothingly. “Two things. The first is that they already, and genuinely believe, that there is something wrong and unusual about my family. Eurus did not help matters when she set part of the studio alight after the war’s end. She might have been, _‘celebrating,’_ in her own way”-she’d smiled a little in spite of herself at his sardonic tone-“Or wanting, and thinking that we would be able to go back to England, forgetting that we came over here after the Great War and _not_ at the beginning of the one that we have just lived through, but it drew attention and is something that people have been trying to understand ever since. As I have mentioned communism is the biggest fear that people have right now, so why not use _that_ as an explanation? Second is the fact that if my family’s reputation is pulled down then it will make things financially easier, for whichever one of the biggest studios buys ours. It barely survived the war after all and surely, in their opinion, it is the biggest ones that deserve to keep on going? It is also _them,_ which are easier to watch, rather than the independent places.” She’d shifted uncomfortably. “It is with that in mind that I am aware, that I have to play their game to some extent. Otherwise, they will go after Sherlock, or God forbid _Eurus,_ whom I fear would not be able to stand up to their scrutiny. Whilst at least Sherlock would probably baffle the Committee with all his gobbledygook.” She’d smiled in spite of herself at that point. Mycroft was _always_ accusing Sherlock of that and of using too much slang. “I am also trying to preserve what is important to me through protecting them.” He’d stopped fidgeting with her hair momentarily, before he’d gone back to it. “I only wish that I’d been able to do the _same_ for you,” he’d sighed. “Which brings me to my final conclusion. You do not have to”-

“I’m not going to work if _you’re_ not.” She’d swung out of bed with a determined look upon her face. “And I’m _certainly_ not going to co-operate with them after the way that they’ve treated you.” She’d taken a couple of steps away from the bed, her back turned to him. Mycroft had looked at her bouffant hairstyle _hungrily_ for a moment, wanting to thread his fingers through it and then run them down the slender curve of her back. 

He’d rolled out of bed too-the thin mattress had squeaked as he’d done such a thing, moved away from the four framed black and white photographs that had been hung in a square over the bed, collected her pearl-coloured dressing gown, which had been draped over the back of the chair beyond one of the cumbersome matching lamps on the bedside cabinet and gone across to wrap her in its silk. She’d slipped it on gratefully and had pulled it close, her eyes on a larger, wooden chair that had been in one of the far corners of the room and which had held his clothes, as if she’d wanted to memorize them. In both an attempt to distract her and simply because he’d _wanted_ to his hands had delved cautiously along her waist, before they’d hardened. He’d left a heated peck of thanks upon her neck-her hair had tickled his nose as he’d done such a thing-and known that she would _not_ be persuaded to look after herself. The independent way that she’d come to America with few possessions and _certainly_ none as big as the dreams in her heart, even _after_ she’d been orphaned in the war, wouldn’t let her succumb easily in the present, he’d been aware, and he’d felt grateful for not only her strength of character, but for her _presence_ in his life.

She’d smelt the cigarette smoke on him, but had squeezed at his hand in spite of herself, before they’d both proceeded to get dressed-her in a fitted f/c sweater, black pencil skirt with red lipstick, though she’d only applied one layer and not her usual two and Mycroft in a white shirt, braces and suit trousers, the jacket and tie would be put on later and before he left her-and had gone out to the main living space in order to have breakfast. 

Opening the door they’d heard Frank Sinatra as he’d sung on the radio that was on the sideboard by the door that had led to the stairs. Mycroft would have bought F/N a phonograph by that point if she hadn’t kept telling him that it was an inappropriate gift, _despite_ the fact that they were coming down in price. Mrs. Hudson, who Mycroft had investigated through his contacts in the industry and who he’d trusted to keep quiet about his relationship with F/N when it had mattered-for F/N’s sake rather than his own-must have switched the radio on and as usual had _known_ that he was there and had appeared imminently, as if she’d been _waiting_ to do such a thing. She’d laid out an abundant of toast, bacon, eggs and orange juice before them on the circular table that had been in between the window with their long red curtains and the door to F/N’s bedroom. Mycroft _hated_ the curtains, but they reminded F/N of a stage-curtain, so she _loved_ them. He doubted that Mrs. Hudson would have allowed them to be changed in any case and definitely not by _him._ “That’ll have to go on your bill dear,” she’d spoken to F/N. “Of course I don’t mind if it’s just”-she’d gestured with her hands-“You and me, but when you’ve got your man friend here-someone extra you know?” She’d bustled off.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Mycroft had commented slyly. F/N had kicked at his ankle beneath the table. Mycroft had looked surprised about the thing and then _pleased._

He’d risen, and then, before F/N had even been _aware_ of what was happening he’d reached for her, pulled her to her feet and cradled her in a bit of a dance as they’d kissed. The crockery had tinkled on the table as the passion had won out and he’d pushed her back against it. They’d groaned a little, before a throat had been cleared and they’d both opened their eyes wide enough to see Mrs Hudson, as she’d deposited a tea tray on the table out of the corner of them and muttered about, ‘indecent behaviour.’ Not because she was a prude, but rather because it was _Mycroft_ who F/N had been kissing. F/N had giggled a little, whilst Mycroft had worn a tender smile upon his face. 

Still a little amused and exhilarated from it all Mycroft had begun to step back from F/N, but she must have worn a sudden look of desperation upon her face, for he’d frowned and leant back into her. His hand had gone to cup carefully at her hair and he’d pulled her into his chest.

“It’ll be all right,” he’d murmured to her reassuringly, going along for a moment with the hopes that he’d _known_ she tried to have for much of the time about how he wouldn’t _really_ have to pay any consequences for his stance; hopes like he’d known the _rest_ of the men who had faced charges alongside him-the Hollywood Ten-had harboured. “Sherlock’s got a friend, John, remember? I’ve told you about him before. He writes scripts and things. You can always go down that avenue and use his name. He said that he wouldn’t mind.” He’d _known_ that despite what F/N had boldly told him before about _not_ working if _he_ hadn’t been able to that her soul would dry up in despair if she wasn’t allowed _any_ connection with the industry. 

“But what if I _can’t?”_ she’d asked him. “I’ve never even written a script before and what if things _aren’t_ all right, Mycroft?” For the first time she’d allowed herself to properly _feel_ the fear that had built up inside her in the last couple of years or so-adding on from the trauma that she’d felt during the war.

Before Mycroft’s eyes had been able to soften further it was like their hands had been torn from one another.

*

Someone was screaming. It had taken F/N a while to realize that it was _her._ That _she_ had been sat beside the table with the breakfast things untouched as she’d reflected on what had been and what could no longer be-Mycroft was no longer a free man and unable to visit her any more. He’d been jailed yesterday and her shoulders had shaken, whilst tears had spilled out of her eyes at the realization that it wasn’t a bad thought, or even a _nightmare_ any more, but a memory.

Mrs. Hudson had come to find her at all her racket. For a moment she’d just stood there and witnessed the younger woman, as she’d broken apart with her eyes. She’d tutted at her in a businesslike fashion and gone across to her, where she’d cradled her in her arms in a _much_ more motherly way.

“There, there,” she’d patted at her back. “It’s only a $500 fine and six months inside. Some people had _twice_ that amount,” she’d reminded her. F/N had _known_ that it was partially because Mycroft hadn’t been as _rude_ as the others had been. Instead of hollering like some of his fellow men had done at the Chairman and treating the Committee with indignation he’d just sat through the proceedings with a thoughtful frown upon his face, though he had, there had been no doubt, been frustrated at not being able to get in more than a few words when it had come time for him to talk, whilst apparent witnesses had been _allowed_ to speak at some length during the whole thing. She’d seen it on his face, in the crease in between his eyebrows. 

“I know,” she’d gurgled, “But it’s not _only_ that…” Mrs Hudson had understood that F/N had been concerned about the _future_ in that moment. About whether she would _really_ be able to have a successful life with Mycroft when it wasn’t clear whether either of them would ever work again... 

F/N was vaguely aware, amongst all her thoughts and distress, of Mrs. Hudson grudgingly telling her something along the lines of how Mycroft would not want her to fall apart and of how she’d ushered her into a standing position. Vaguely aware, as she’d helped her into the turquoise nightgown that had glanced at her thighs and back into bed. Aware of how she’d kept her upright with one hand and offered her one of the little pills that F/N had taken before bed the previous night to try and make her forget about it all with her other. F/N had placed it into her mouth automatically. Mrs. Hudson, her job nearly done, had passed her the remnants of the glass of water that had been placed on the bedside cabinet, dwarfed by the large lamp. F/N had used it to assist the pill down and then had handed it back to her.

_“There,”_ Mrs. Hudson had said with a soft triumph about her. She’d settled F/N into bed and had tucked the duvet around her.

F/N had gasped with tears a little more, before the effects of the pill had slowly embraced her and she’d rolled around deeper into its clutches. She’d heard Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps retreating and they’d sounded very far away. Then she’d dreamt and fragments of her early relationship with Mycroft had returned to her.

*

On the set of, _‘Lady Be Bad,’_ Mycroft had been intense and direct. He’d _always_ had a bit of a frown on his face and had looked pinched and worried. His notes had been abrupt and specific. He hadn’t seemed to _worry_ about the phrasing of them if they hadn’t been particularly complimentary and that had gone for _everyone,_ not only her, but unfortunately they had always been _right_ as well. [Mycroft had a spooky intuition, for what was needed in a scene or on a set to make things come alive.] In spite of that little fact, however, some of the cast had seemed to regret working under a first time director and especially one as highly-strung as him. She wasn’t sure if she was one of them. She’d found his passion and how seriously he was taking the project to be rather alluring. He’d had the job because of his family, so he hadn’t _needed_ to make something of himself, but he’d seemed determined and almost _desperate_ to do such a thing, always tweaking things incessantly until they’d worked. His attitude had at least _encouraged_ people to try and operate at their best level, even if he _had_ rubbed some people up the wrong way.

There seemed to be a particular disagreement between Mycroft and the leading man, Joe, however. Whilst F/N’s notes were thankfully minor and often had to do with her positioning herself in a better way-that had been the biggest role she’d had to date and she’d still been a little unsure of herself on set-keeping her energy simmering for a longer period of time-the femme fatale that she played seemed to do a _lot_ of simmering-or a disagreement over what emphasis the words had in a scene-the pair of them would bicker over words for _hours_ if they’d had their way-Joe seemed to do little _right_ in Mycroft’s eyes. It had started off fairly ordinary, but had soon escalated. Like her, in the beginning, he’d just had minor remarks to go on, but his ego had seen him answering back to _all_ of them and not picking his battles like F/N had done, which had seen a great deal of time lost on set every day and had not endeared him to Mycroft in the _slightest._ Mycroft had to fit in a certain amount of filming every day if things were to remain on track and was being constantly reminded by his mother [who had run the studio] about the financial costs of it all. [She’d called the movie, rather condescendingly, _‘Mycroft’s little experiment,’_ in front of everyone.] Violet had interrupted them on set one day and whilst Mycroft had been preoccupied with her, Joe had used the opportunity to call him a, ‘Mummy’s boy,’ in front of F/N, who he’d previously asked out. That had resulted in a storming argument between the two men [Mycroft hadn’t heard what exactly had been said between them, but had seemed to have the general gist] and not much work had been done that day. The feud had seemed to mostly escalate _away_ from F/N, however, and she hadn’t changed her mind about _why_ it had existed until one day. 

She’d been filming a scene with Joe that was confrontational and meant to be _full_ of sexual-tension inside the office set with its battered, wooden desk, phone, typewriter, fake documents, filing cabinets and case board, which was just behind the desk in the set in the cold and draughty studio. It was particularly chilly for F/N, who might have been wearing a fur stole and long, black gloves, but was still cold due to the fact that underneath she was only wearing a lacy, dark dress. F/N’s femme fatale character was meant to be using her charm and feminine wiles in order to try and conceal a piece of evidence that she’d wanted to be kept hidden from the leading man’s cynical private detective. She’d looked across after the end of the first take to see the look that Mycroft had given her was practically _smoldering._ She’d begun to understand sub-consciously from that point on that maybe the heat between the director and Joe had _nothing_ to do with Mycroft’s notes and the attitudes of both men after all. 

Mycroft-who she’d assumed up until that point had been too busy making a _movie_ to notice her all that much-had come across in his dark braces and white open-necked shirt, the sleeves of which had been rolled up and revealed surprisingly toned forearms. His eyes had darted between them, as they’d sought out information. He’d smelt of musk and cigarette smoke, as he so often had done. She’d felt _hot_ at the way that he’d approached them, the intensity of his stare whenever he’d looked at her and at the way that his orbs had seemed to be taking everything about her in as they’d lingered, making her feel noticed.

“You’re doing a scene with someone who’s at a higher energy level than you.” His eyes had gone back to Joe, who had frowned in his cheap suit and looked defensive at the director’s words. “You need to be the same.” His eyes had flickered back to F/N. “Just go through the moves without talking.” She’d looked back at Joe just like Mycroft had predicted she would. Her eyes had flared with concentration as they had in the initial take-a level of concentration that Mycroft had _wished_ would be directed at _him_ and not the man he insisted on calling Joseph, which Joe had hated, even though that _was_ his actual name. Her hand had swept out towards Joe’s shoulder. Mycroft had intercepted it. She’d let out a little gasp that Mycroft had found pleasant, though he’d found the amount of energy that was being emitted by her hand alone to be _frightful._ He’d swung her towards him seriously enough, however, his face full of contemplation, as F/N’s hand had automatically gone to steady the stole, but she hadn’t overbalanced, even _though_ her heels had made a din against the floor. “You need to match her step for step.” His eyes had burned into hers and he’d pulled away the stole challengingly and let it drop down to the floor. The detective character _wouldn’t_ have done that in the scene and since Mycroft was experimenting F/N had met him in that moment. She’d broken out of his hold in order to run a diagonal hand across his braces and shirt. Her fingertips had danced on the edge of his shirt and had _fleetingly_ touched at the warm skin itself. Something had skittered across his eyes as his concentration had momentarily broken and to cover it he’d let out a bit of a growl. He'd re-captured her hand quickly and swung her down, trapping her legs in between his, as he'd moved to be around her. He’d supported her back with his other hand. Her breath had hitched at the sight of him-the pompadour hairstyle, _much_ more fashionably advanced than Joe with his crew-cut, and Mycroft’s had the addition of the unruly curl that had draped down over a forehead that had a sheen of sweat across it, luminous blue eyes, a stern mouth desperate not to yield, but which she’d _longed_ to kiss in that moment just to see what it would do and the probing trace of dampness, which had disappeared beneath his shirt-and at the feel of his smoky breath that had fanned across her face when his lips had finally been forced to open in their search for air. His nostrils had flared, as he’d no doubt taken in her scent-a mix of sweat, second-hand smoke and her perfume, which contained galbanum, oakmoss and bergamot. He’d made an incoherent sound and let the hand that had been upon her back slide further down her at the same time that he’d moved closer to her. She’d trembled without being able to help but do such a thing and Mycroft had been pleased. “Word for word,” he’d murmured seductively, before he’d let out an unusual burst of chuckling laughter as she’d tapped him in the back of the leg with her foot at his teasing remark. He’d rightened the pair of them and they’d stared at one another with an increased amount of curiosity and respect for one another upon their faces. “You see, Joseph,” he’d turned back to _Joe_ whose face had looked heavy with contempt, “This is an important moment between the pair of you. You have to be prepared to meet it.” That might have been it. It might have gone down as just another note on another day, but there had been something in the air between Mycroft and F/N ever since then, as if they’d gone down a different path and they’d done such a thing together.

She’d noticed him _more_ after that point. The way that he’d sometimes end up being stood a little closer to her, even if his body had faced away from hers, as if to share in a private conversation whenever he had given her his notes or they’d shared in any conversation at all and the way that his eyes would catch against hers more often, but for a shorter amount of time, as if he had gone suddenly shy or unsure of himself. Her eyes would find themselves drawn to his arms whenever his sleeves were rolled back and the deft quirk of his lips when he _did_ actually crack a joke or smile, most often doing such a thing when she was able to see it… 

She’d felt _curious_ about the multiple sides of him, but neither one of them had acted on whatever it was that had been going on between them until it had been near the end of the shoot. The cast and crew had _often_ gone to drink at a bar near where they’d been filming at the end of each day. Mycroft hadn’t, however, and it had only been when she’d happened to look through the window of another bar, on the way to her temporary home from the first in her dark green dress, pearl necklace and cream-coloured heels, that she had found his preferred watering hole. She’d hesitated for a moment, before she’d stepped inside. It was a small low place-the space seemed further lessened because of the white pillars that had stood at alternate points to hold up a no longer glossy white ceiling that had been stained from smoke-longer in width than height with brown, square stools in the front of the bar, whilst behind it, on shelves that had run from floor to ceiling, had been drinks of every kind imaginable. A few people had been sat by tables in dim light, but Mycroft had been sat by the bar on one of the stools, as he’d nursed a whisky. The place had been full of smoke and all in all it wasn’t one that she’d _imagined_ him to frequent-neither particularly clean or glossy-but maybe that was the _point._ Mycroft had been able to be invisible there and his perhaps _want_ to be such a thing had made her delay for another moment. That was until his shoulders had tensed, as if he’d sensed someone’s presence and that he’d been found out, so she’d strolled up to the bar as confidently as she’d been able to, hadn’t looked at him and had only ordered her drink-a Mai Tai cocktail. 

Only when the bar man had charged her had they started to interact, although it had been as inevitable as their relationship had become. 

Mycroft had closed his hand firmly around hers so that the money had stayed clenched in her hand. “Put it on the tab,” he’d ordered the bar man. He’d released her and had started to light a cigarette. 

“You smoke too much of those,” she hadn’t been able to help but tell him.

Mycroft had cocked a brow at her, before he’d made the cigarette spark. “I do believe that I just paid for your drink,” he’d informed her, as he’d stowed his lighter away in the pocket of his grey suit.

“Thank you of course,” she’d returned the money to her purse, “But it’s true. In fact I think the amount that you smoke has gone _up_ during the length of the shoot. Has it been _that_ stressful?” 

With his arms folded on the bar he’d given her an amused look. “Not because of _you,”_ he’d told her generously, though she’d _known_ that her lack of experience had probably held things up on the set at least one or two times, “But there have been _other_ elements…” She’d known that he’d been thinking of _Joe_ at that point and he’d taken a long drag of his cigarette. 

“There could be another explanation for the increase of your smoking addiction, however.” She’d taken a sip of her drink and something inside her had relaxed-she’d become _very_ fond of those cocktails of late. 

“It’s a habit. Its not increased so much as to become an _addiction,”_ he’d informed her grumpily.

“Habit then,” she’d waved a hand loftily and his eye had twitched.

“And what might _that_ be?” he’d asked, as he’d pretended that he was only _feigning_ interest.

“Well, maybe you’re overcompensating for something? Trying to fulfill a desire? The lead character smokes a lot in this, doesn’t he?” She’d eyed him intently.

“What are you getting at? That I’d be a better fit for the lead character than Joseph? Well, _that_ would be true.” Mycroft hadn’t been modest. “Anyone would be. I could say the same about _you,”_ he’d paused. She’d looked at him. “Are you _really_ like the character you are playing or do you just _want_ to be like her?” F/N’s eyes had swirled with something darker in that moment, _and,_ as he’d sensed that she was about to leave the conversation _and_ him, he’d added, “Forgive me,” and had placed a hand upon the arm of hers that had been across the bar, her drink curled loosely in her hand. It must have been cold because the condensation had been visible upon the glass, but she hadn’t seemed to _care._ It had given her something to do and Mycroft had thought he was _right_ about her own vulnerability.

“I only _meant_ that you want to be liked and that in your head the only way to go about it seems to be to become the main character.” She’d shrugged him off her a little heatedly and had steered him back to the conversation that _she’d_ wanted to have. 

“I’d say that’s true for _you_ as well.” Mycroft had sipped at his drink. 

“Of _course_ I want to be liked, but it’s not my first time directing and _I’m_ not the one who can’t seem to get on with my lead actor,” as usual she’d had a response for him and Mycroft had snorted.

“What about the rest of them? How do _they_ feel?” he’d asked her.

“About _you?”_ she’d been surprised by the question. 

_“Mm.”_ Mycroft, who had looked behind the bar rather than at her had appeared vulnerable again.

“They’re willing to overlook the lack of tact in your critique for the most part I think.” F/N had faced the front. Mycroft had snorted.

“And _you?”_ he’d asked. 

“Am _I_ willing to overlook the lack of tact in your critique?” She’d quirked an eyebrow up at him. 

He’d met her stare head-on and had nodded. “Not only that, but do you believe me to be a _‘Mummy’s boy,’_ like the rest of them? Are you willing to overlook the _other_ challenging parts of my personality that are bound to arise if”- 

_“If?”_ she’d pushed him as she hadn’t wanted him to stop there. He’d smiled.

“If we stayed in touch. The shoot is ending soon, as you’re well aware”-he’d shifted his position and had faced the front, suddenly businesslike-“And since you haven’t told me that you object to me so far I thought it might be a fairly neat idea. I’ve heard rumours of some parts that are coming up that might be suitable for you. _Not_ directed by me of course, although I hope to one day take up that mantle again should this film do well.” He’d gotten the courage to look at her and had hoped that she wouldn’t _purely_ be in his life for what she could get out of him.

“That is a shame.” Her eyes had dipped down to his lips, for long enough that he’d notice and she’d wondered what he’d do next. 

His hand had gone to his hair and rumpled it a little. “So, I thought we might stay in touch?”

“Yes, I got that point.” She’d been a little amused. 

Mycroft had smiled widely into his drink for a moment at her provocation and the way that she insisted on meeting him each time, before he’d looked back at her, suddenly intent and going along with the idea that it had been _fate,_ which had made her walk into the bar that night and that fate wasn’t to be ignored. _Ever._ He’d gotten off his stool in a predatory manner. She’d stood as well and her heart had skipped a beat as she’d wondered what he would do. His hand had found first her sleeve and then her _own_ hand in the smoky bar. He’d pulled her behind the closest pillar and away from anyone who might have recognized them had they looked through the windows. She’d let out a bit of a breath as her back had come into contact with the pillar. Mycroft had stepped up close to her. His eyes had danced against hers and upon different parts of her face, before he’d slowly lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers experimentally. She’d surged forwards and had pulled him close. Their hands upon the other’s waist and back they’d kissed one another passionately and had finally let the feelings that had been building between them like a movie set with all its detail loose a little.

F/N had awoken from the dream of late forties and early fifties America to find herself back in the hotel that she’d been staying in, whilst she’d done some filming abroad. She’d let out a soft sigh at the pleasant last memory of the dream and had curled herself a little around one of the pillows as she’d looked forward to seeing Mycroft again.


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support! :D I really appreciate the love that this story has got already!
> 
> Just a quick heads up that the next four chapters follow on from each other and what has come before, so you don't need to worry about any jump in the timeline. As I have said previously I will tell you when that occurs. :)

“Can I ask you something?” Mycroft had queried. It had been late. They’d been at F/N’s apartment-they’d agreed that because of the way that Sherlock had a habit of inviting himself into Mycroft’s house when he wasn’t called upon that they’d stick to using _her_ place for the time being. They’d also come to the conclusion that they hadn’t wanted Sherlock to find out like that and nor had they wanted to lose control of _how_ they told people either, but they’d danced around the issue of exactly when, where and _how_ they would tell them. Mycroft had taken his watch off and left it beside where his phone had been nestled in front of the small pile of books-some were about acting, psychology that he’d _known_ she’d tried to apply to better understand her characters [he also had a sneaking suspicion that she’d read chapters to try and understand _him_ on more than one occasion] and a rather rumpled chick lit book that had been hidden between the others-and a lamp that had been on the bedside cabinet. F/N’s phone had been on the matching cabinet on the other side. She had already been in bed and had half-turned towards him. He’d felt glad that he’d been able to stay the night. He always slept better whenever she was around. 

“Of course.” She’d shifted a little closer to him as he’d gotten beneath the covers. 

He’d placed a steadying hand upon her hip and she’d shivered a little underneath its warmth. His other hand had gone idly to her hair. “Have you told anyone about us?” She’d looked at him, almost as if she’d been wondering whether what he’d just said had been an accusation. “It came to me”-his hand had delved amongst her hair, as if it had been trying to pick out her very thoughts themselves-“That you meet people all the time. I was merely wondering what you tell them if they ask about your personal life?”

“I don’t go into any details,” she’d assured him. “I let them know that I _have_ someone”-Mycroft had felt glad for the thing, as he hadn’t wanted anyone to misconstrue her politeness for anything else and had felt slightly possessive of her-“But I’ve never told anyone your name. I think my make-up artist might be on to us though, and of course _Martha_ already knows.”

“That’s all right.” It was _his_ fault about the make-up artist and they were _both_ to blame to a point regarding Mrs. Hudson, but he doubted that Mrs. Hudson would tell anyone-for F/N’s sake more than his-and if the make-up artist had then even if it _hadn’t_ been dismissed as pure gossip and speculation she hadn’t known anything more than that he was F/N’s agent. 

“Should I have told anyone about you?” F/N hadn’t been sure of the thing. “I _know_ that you’re my agent now, but just in case any one was able to find out about your _previous_ position I thought it might be best for me _not_ to do such a thing. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel if I did. I know that you've always been quite private about your government work...” Her words had lingered in the air for a moment and she'd wondered if she should push him for more details-they were a couple after all-before she'd recognized that it was probably too early in their intimacy for him to be obliging of her request.

Mycroft had tried his best to stonily ignore her curiosity and rather think on her initial remarks. He’d _known_ that there were _some_ risks to a lot of people knowing-that just because he’d left his government position hadn’t meant that the life he’d lived at that point would never catch up with him or that there wasn’t _any_ one out there who would wish him or those that he loved harm. [F/N had mentioned the sunshine and rain thing again when he’d confided in her about how it troubled him that their closer connection might make her a target in the eyes of some people. She'd also said how they had to _try_ to move forwards and not be scared because of what other people might do or they’d be stuck in the same place forever. She had reluctantly agreed, however, to have her security upgraded if it would put his mind at ease somewhat and to have someone watching her at all times.] In the spirit of what they’d already discussed he’d said, “There are _some_ people who will find out in due course anyway.” There was no question about whether they would continue their relationship, as they had _both_ been set on the matter. “I’m sure that you are able to guess _who_ they are?”

“Your brother and your parents?” F/N had realized that they were _finally_ going to discuss the issue properly. 

“Mm. Christmas is coming up,” Mycroft had considered. “I could forewarn them and let them know _before_ hand though, so that it would be easier for you? Mummy is at risk of making a _dreadful_ fuss otherwise.” He’d rolled his eyes, before he’d tried to look at her encouragingly. He’d been _sure_ that his mother would be fine with the thing. She’d _known_ F/N. It wouldn’t be as if he’d be introducing any one _new_ to her after all.

F/N had smiled, but had felt a little nervous in _spite_ of her previous knowledge of Violet Holmes. Just because they’d known one another hadn’t _meant_ that she’d be accepted as Mycroft’s partner after all. Mycroft had been trying to be generous, however. “All right. I think that sounds like a good idea,” she’d conceded. 

“I’ll leave everyone else to _your_ discretion then,” he’d told her, before he’d rolled towards her more firmly. The relief at how well the conversation had gone had radiated off him. They’d shared a kiss, _and,_ as he’d gotten a little carried away, he’d pecked at her forehead and cheek as well. She’d made a little sound and had fisted the material of his pyjama jacket up in her hand. “Just remember that I’m yours,” he’d whispered heatedly into her ear, as she’d done such a thing. She’d _known_ that he’d said it that way to remind her that she had control of his heart and that she could _easily_ hurt him if she wanted to. His mental health and welfare had been partially in her hands, more so since they were dating, and she hadn't wanted to mess anything up. He'd been through enough as it was. 

“I will,” she’d reassured him when he'd looked at her imploringly, but she’d felt uneasy as the pressure that had started to grow in her stomach from everything that they had talked about had only expanded further. As she’d pulled away from him she’d _sensed_ that there was trouble brewing on the horizon and she’d wondered if there was any way to stop it or if she just had to let it occur…


	6. Christmas Eve

F/N had been talking about this and that as she packed that morning. Mycroft loves her [ _present_ tense as he’s heard some young people say] but he’d only been _half-_ listening. He’d been far more concerned with what would happen when they arrived at where they were heading to. They _both_ had been. 

It was their first Christmas together and Mycroft was taking F/N to his parents [Sherlock, John, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson would be staying in London and having a quiet Christmas at John’s since 221B was still under repair and that was where they were staying at.] F/N had spent every Christmas with the Holmes family since she’d become an orphan, but Mycroft had placed emphasis on the fact that he would of _course_ be bringing someone _‘special’_ home with him that year. To say that Mummy was excited was an understatement and he was pleased that she seemed to have taken the news of the development in his relationship with F/N well. He just hoped that things would _stay_ that way. That was why he hadn’t properly tuned into what F/N had been saying until she’d uttered “…I just find it a bit strange. Usually I’d have something _booked_ for after Christmas. There hasn’t been any technological problems at the agency has there? Any reason why calls and e-mails wouldn’t be getting through?” The thought of there being a problem in her career had just _added_ to the increasing feeling and growing unease that she’d experienced over the past few weeks and if there was anything wrong then she’d wanted it resolved, _before_ they’d gone away. She’d turned from where she had just been trying to make everything fit more neatly into her suitcase to look at him. 

“No, no problems.” He’d been _used_ to fobbing off people in his old government job, but as he’d done the same thing to _her_ his stomach had squirmed and his palms had lined with sweat. 

Her face had fallen and he’d felt all the _guiltier._ “Maybe it’s my age then…” She’d turned to her suitcase regretfully and Mycroft had sensed that she’d been chewing upon her lip. 

“Come on my dear,” he’d tried to encourage her, “We better be going.” His stuff was already in the taxi that they’d be using and he’d just come inside to fetch her, but her nerves about meeting his parents in these new set of circumstances, not as a friend but as Mycroft’s _lover,_ had made her indecisive about what to bring with her and her words ramble a little, hence the delay. Mycroft had regretted telling the female taxi driver to leave the meter running, but he couldn’t have made use of one of his old, black work cars since he hadn’t been _employed_ by the government any more. He’d stepped beside F/N. As she’d turned her head towards him he’d seen that her eyes had brimmed with tears.

He’d frowned, but she’d shaken her head and moved away from him.

“No, you’re right.” She’d closed her suitcase. She’d grabbed it and the extra plastic bag she had, which she’d told him had contained his father’s Christmas present and had made to move out the door.

His guilt had risen up enough for him to say, “Actually I”- She’d looked back at him. He’d swallowed.

_“Yes?”_

“Well, I”- he’d tried to step up to her as earnestly as possible and had _hoped_ that she wouldn’t be _too_ mad with him. “There were some people interested in seeing you for a few different parts, but I didn’t think that they were suitable for you,” he’d gotten out hurriedly.

For a moment time had seemed to stop and she’d just gaped at him. “What? You turned down _all_ of them?” Mycroft’s mouth had flapped open and shut. “Didn’t you think”-F/N had dropped her suitcase and the bag on the floor-“That it might be a good idea to talk to _me_ about, at _least,_ some of them, before you just decided like that?” The pressure that she’d been under had swelled all the more and a headache had burned in her temple. Her shoulders had been full of tension like a cat that had, had its hackles raised. 

Mycroft had looked back at her in a nonplussed way. “But I’m your _agent.”_ She’d tutted, picked up the suitcase and bag and turned around. ‘Not for much longer you will be,’ had been what he’d _thought_ she’d said, but he hadn’t been sure. “I was trying to save you time,” he’d amended, as he’d followed after her. 

She’d marched out of the apartment. He’d only _just_ avoided being shut in by her and she hadn’t said a _word_ throughout the entire lift ride down. She’d only clenched and unclenched her fists and he’d _felt_ her fury towards him. 

In the hope that it might coax some more amenable feelings out of her he’d gently prised the suitcase and bag from her once they’d gotten outside and put them into the boot of the taxi.

When he’d joined her _inside_ the car, however, she had already been buckled up and had looked in the opposite direction. Her face had been tight with pain and frustration. He’d nodded the female taxi driver on and had delicately placed his hand on the middle seat between F/N and him in the hope that, that might change things. F/N had taken no notice of it, however. Mycroft had sighed. He’d glanced at the driver, but she had been pre-occupied with going around road works and the radio had been on fairly loudly in any case. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He’d leant forwards towards F/N. “I just thought”- he’d grasped at her arm in an instinctive attempt to make her look at him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she’d said a little _too_ loudly, before she’d winced and her eyes had gone to the driver. Mycroft’s attention had gone there as well. The woman had looked at them through the mirror. He’d let go of F/N’s arm and the woman’s focus had shifted away again.

“You didn’t mean what you said though?” he’d gone on in a low tone. “About me not being your agent any more?” For his mind had convinced him by that point that she _had_ come up with such a thing. “That wouldn’t _mean-?”_ He was afraid that they were going to split up, that he’d finally done it and had driven her away for good. That he’d be left with another regret in his life and that he’d be _alone_ for the rest of his days…

“I just need time to _think,”_ F/N had hissed angrily back at him, annoyed that he hadn’t been giving her space.

The driver had looked at them again so Mycroft had cleared his throat and sat back in his seat, as he’d pondered over it all. He’d wondered if he should try and talk to F/N again, but one look at her folded arms and the fact that she had been sat as far away from him as had been possible had rather dented his courage. He’d glanced at the mirror. The driver had given him a tiny, minute shake of her head, as their eyes had met inside of it.

“No,” Mycroft had folded his hands and sat back further, “Probably not.”

F/N had stirred, but she hadn’t said anything. She’d done the same thing when Mycroft had received a text message a few moments later. He’d sighed when he’d read it.

_“Problem?”_ she’d asked him, as if it hadn’t been _possible_ for what he was going through to be as bad as what he seemed determined to put her through. 

Mycroft had _known_ that it wouldn’t have been the right time to tell her about what had cropped up in that moment. “No, no problem,” he’d murmured, and gone on to tap at his phone.

F/N hadn’t said a word further and they’d travelled past decorated houses and other people who had been trying to reach wherever their arranged Christmas location had been in silence. 

*

By the time that they’d pulled outside his parents’ cottage it had been late afternoon, though not quite dark, and Mycroft had been so desperate for F/N to say anything to him, for their relationship _not_ to be over and for him to have to tell Mummy that their relationship had _really_ been as short-lived as all that, that when she’d asked him, “They do know, right? And they’re fine with it?” he’d just nodded for a moment. 

“Yes, yes, everything will be all right.” As he’d fully realized that not _only_ had he had her attention, but that she'd spoken as if they were still together, he’d looked at her more eagerly.

The corners of her lips had pinched down into a frown and she’d turned her back on him deliberately and had gotten out of the car without a further word. She’d begun to pull all of their things out of the boot with several quick flourishes and an introspective look upon her face.

“Good luck there,” the driver had told him. 

“How much do I owe you?” he’d asked her. His body had been so _used_ to behaving automatically that he hadn’t paid due attention to what she’d said initially.

It had only been once he’d paid the extortionate amount and been about to close the door that it had occurred to him and he’d added a swift, “Thank you.” He hadn’t been entirely sure that the woman’s words hadn’t been sardonic, but had decided to live in hope. 

The taxi driver had thrown him a wink and he’d felt _sure_ that he’d seen Eurus in her features for a moment, before she’d pulled away again. Another automatic part of him had considered checking that Eurus had _still_ been under lock and key, before he’d become distracted when he’d caught F/N as she’d looked at him concernedly. His face had softened in turn, but she’d let out a bit of a, _‘Hmph,’_ and had looked away from him. Her eyes had gone to the cottage-to the neat, traditional wreath that had been upon its door and to the decorations that had been visible through some of its windows-and then to the snow-capped mountains that had been in the distance. She’d folded her arms, but had unfolded them again out of politeness as his retired mother and father had come out of the cottage. He’d noticed straight away that his father’s tan cardigan had been slightly crooked over his white shirt, whilst his mother had looked businesslike in her soft grey woollen top that had been accentuated with a large silver necklace and dark trousers. 

Edwin had looked at them with a gentle, keen smile about his face and Mycroft had worn a similar expression when he’d caught his father as he’d slipped F/N the sweet that he’d given her whenever she’d visited. _Violet,_ on the other hand, had barraged up to them and moved him first aside and then F/N. They’d been joined in a moment of pure bafflement and Mycroft had _relished_ experiencing the same feelings as the woman he desired and _knowing_ what was going on in her head for a moment, even if it _had_ been down to his mother.

“Where _is_ she? She didn’t come after all, Mycroft?” His mother had looked down the road where the taxi had retreated with a concentrated expression upon her face.

“What ever do you mean Mummy?” Mycroft had been confused and all too _aware_ of F/N’s eyes being set on him and his mother intensely. They had been slightly narrowed because of her headache.

Edwin had tried to speak and rescue the situation, but his words had gotten trampled over by his wife. “You said that you were bringing someone _‘special?’”_ She’d barely given F/N a passing glance as she’d fixed her eyes upon her son, and Mycroft, too _used_ to being passed over by his mother _himself_ by that point, had _felt_ the hurt that it had caused. 

“I thought you’d told them!” F/N had let out the dry sob that had been building for weeks. She’d run into the cottage and had left her suitcase and bag behind. 

Determined to not feel as incompetent as he had for very long Mycroft had taken an automatic step after her. 

“You have a _lot_ of explaining to do,” his mother had warned him.

_“Vi,”_ Edwin had attempted to calm her down, which had only had the effect of turning Violet’s ire on _him_ instead.

Mycroft had shaken his head at the distraction and had finally gone after F/N, as he’d dragged both of their suitcases with him. F/N’s extra bag had been looped around his arm and had banged against the walls of the narrow hallway. The scent of meat and vegetables cooking had filtered through from the kitchen.

He’d found F/N as she’d paced between the chairs and the small tree that had been tucked into the corner of the sitting room. Fairy lights had adorned it and had been switched on to make the place look more welcoming for them. Wrapped presents had been underneath it. Neither of them had been children, however, and F/N hadn’t given _anything,_ which had to do with the season much attention. She had at one point though and Mycroft had, had a flashback of the pair of them as they’d run excitedly towards a different tree in a different place for a moment, their small bodies in pyjamas and their feet bare. In the present F/N had already taken her coat off and draped it over the back of the settee. “I had thought that _we”_ -she’d gestured awkwardly with her hands-“Or at the very _least_ that I’d be able to stay in Sherlock’s room since he’s not here, but I guess it’s the settee for me again.” 

He’d dumped their things by the door. “You wouldn’t _want_ to stay in Sherlock’s room, believe me. I think it’s still got leftover parts of an experiment from the last time he was here.” There was also the reason that he hadn’t _wanted_ F/N staying in his brother’s room, but he hadn’t brought up that fact, lest there be another argument between them. “I’m sure that Mummy will be accommodating and that you’ll be able to stay with _me”-_

_“ ‘Accommodating?’”_ He’d seemed to have said the wrong thing. “She doesn’t even _think_ that I’m worthy enough to be your _girl_ friend.” Enraged she’d gone back to her pacing.

“She will in time. _No_ one could be failed to be pleased by you. Please don’t take her reaction _too_ seriously”- that last part had been something that she’d told him often in the past whenever his mother had been disappointed with him.

“Well, maybe she wouldn’t _need_ time if you’d told her like I _thought_ you had”-

“I thought she understood,” Mycroft had been _just_ as exasperated by what had occurred and had wanted her to understand where he’d been coming from.

“What did you say when you rang her?” she’d interrogated him. 

“That I was bringing someone special.” F/N had tutted, as if that hadn’t been _nearly_ good enough. “But I _thought_ that she got it! You come around _every_ year. I thought it would be obvious to someone of _her_ intelligence that”-

“Did she not _ask_ you who it was?” F/N had found it unbelievable that the deception had carried on for so long. 

“I thought she was teasing…that we were sharing a silly moment together.” He’d realized what a stupid thing it had been for him to think in that moment, but he’d honestly thought that he’d been clear about the entire issue and that there had been no _room_ for any confusion. 

F/N had shaken her head. “She must have gotten _used_ to thinking of me as a charity case and _not_ as an actual person. Someone that her _son_ could be interested in,” she’d sounded upset once more. 

“Well I _am_ interested, very much so,” Mycroft had tried to correct that impression. He’d approached and had attempted to wrap his arms around her-physical comfort wouldn’t have been something that he’d _normally_ offer to anyone, but he hadn’t liked to see her in such a way-yet she’d ducked away from him and had gone towards the door. Her hand had lowered towards her suitcase, before it had retreated. Her lips had trembled.

“You know,” she’d straightened up and looked at him, “I might as well go back to London. I don’t _mind_ being alone in my apartment at this time of year, _really_ I don’t and I might be able to make up for some of the lost work that you’ve caused me.”

“I’ve _told_ you that I’m sorry about that.” He’d frowned at her.

“You’ve got a _lot_ of things to be sorry for,” she’d informed him.

“Then I could do with you here, so that I can begin to make it all up to you.” She’d looked at him, as if she’d been trying to work him out. “F/N, _please_ don’t go,” he’d huffed, “I’ll talk to Mummy. She’ll come around. It was just a shock for her after she’d gotten something in her head that’s all. _Father_ loves you. _That_ won’t change. Sherlock was fine with the thing, wasn’t he?” He’d looked at her levelly, as he’d remembered how his brother had come to find out about them. Sherlock had turned up at the agency one day. F/N’s birthday had been approaching and for a long time they’d been in charge of it and of making any celebrations happen. Mycroft hadn’t looked at him and had pretended to be casual about the entire thing as he’d told him that _he’d_ be able to handle it on his _own_ that year. He’d also added that Sherlock’s little trick with the photo had worked, as an extra hint. His brother is so stupid after all. He’d felt his brother’s multi-coloured eyes, as they’d worked their way over him and Mycroft had held his breath and been unable to do his job. He’d been a little worried about _how_ Sherlock would take the thing-that he’d be jealous or accuse Mycroft of trying to steal F/N away from him. His brother had spent a _lot_ of time with her after all and Mycroft hadn’t wanted the new developments in his relationship with F/N to upset Sherlock. He’d _known_ that F/N wouldn’t want such a thing either. Ever since they’d come to the conclusion that they’d be telling his brother and parents soon they’d spent numerous evenings discussing various scenarios and working out _how_ Sherlock might react if he found out as a result of _any_ one of them. When Sherlock had next spoken however, although he’d confessed that he might find things a little bit _strange_ at times-pre-empting his apology if he’d acted up because of such a thing-it had been to congratulate Mycroft. Mycroft had told him that their parents hadn’t known and Sherlock had nodded and said that if they found out then it wouldn’t be from him. “So it’s not _all_ bad,” Mycroft had come out of the memory and told F/N in the present. “Look, you’ve got me begging you now and you _know_ how rare it is that I do that.” He’d half-smiled at her, as he’d _willed_ her to stay there with him. They’d gotten through his brother knowing after all. When Mycroft had gone to tell her about how Sherlock had found out she’d already received a congratulatory text from Sherlock-albeit a slightly sarcastic one-and had seemed _pleased_ with how it had all gone. He’d remembered her beaming face, as she had looked around at him from where she’d been preparing the chicken. They’d _seemed_ like a team in that moment. 

_“Fine.”_ She’d brought her suitcase to the side of the settee and had tucked it away tidily there. Then she’d given him a reproving look, wriggled in between his parents, as they’d come back into the hallway from outside of the cottage and gone for a run. Mycroft had sighed. Apparently they were _not_ a unit at that point.

*

F/N had run back towards the Holmes cottage, across the patches of flat earth and grass and towards the small woods that had been at the edge of the property. She’d just needed to _breathe_ for a moment. 

Still so _angry,_ part of that had started to fade as she’d become embraced by the cool group of trees and her tearaway run had calmed into a purposeful stride. 

As ever, whenever she had been there and able to, she’d navigated towards a particular clearing, _and,_ as usual, once she’d reached it, she’d found herself having to pause and just stop and look at what was in front of her for a moment. 

Even in the low winter light the memorial to her parents-a square base with a spire jutting out of its centre-that the Holmes family and her had all built together after her parents had died had looked pretty. The light had bounced off the edges of the brown and grey stone. Violet had designed it and come up with the measurements for it with her mathematician’s eye. An eleven year-old F/N had watched her in awe and when Violet _hadn’t_ been doing such a thing she’d gone around the garden with F/N and decided which flowers they should lay on the memorial once it had been completed. F/N had felt like part of the family during that time, taken into their embrace. Perhaps _that_ was why it had hurt to be rejected by Violet as a possible partner to Mycroft-even though she’d had her doubts before she’d _hoped_ …She’d almost come to think of Violet as a second mother after all. Maybe Violet had come to see her as a daughter-albeit a disappointing one who she had not necessarily felt like she would stand by no matter what like she more than likely had done with Eurus-and it was all too _strange_ for her to contemplate F/N dating her son…  
Edwin had built the memorial by and large-and even _paid_ to move the memorial to its new home once the Holmes family had moved after Eurus had burnt down their old one. Edwin had been helped a little bit by Mycroft and Sherlock who had passed tools, fetched things, conveyed messages on from Violet whenever she’d been away from the scene as she’d created refreshments for them all and had tended to a three year-old Eurus. She’d carried her daughter back and for, as and when a demanding Eurus had gotten bored or had wanted to see what had been going on. The _boys,_ however, had generally helped their father to keep their mother’s vision in mind. Sherlock in particular had been a bossy and instructive four year-old; whilst Mycroft had been a bit more _polite_ about the way he’d given any reminders. F/N had remembered Edwin asking for her opinion and trying to make her feel included. The memorial had been for _her_ parents after all. Even after a hard day’s work on the thing-Edwin had taken a week off his job in insurance-he’d still read to her every night until her mother’s friend, and F/N’s _sole_ godmother who had been in charge of raising her from that point on, had picked her up. It had been the Holmes’s cottage that had felt like home to F/N for the longest of times however, _and,_ during those long nights where Edwin had read to her, not _only_ age appropriate books with many different sorts of families in them, but more factual ones as well, her liking for concrete and stable facts and knowledge had started to come through to them all the _more,_ as they’d made her feel safe. Maybe _that_ had been why the uncertainty of the future thanks to Violet rejecting her in such a way and thanks to Mycroft’s interference in her career had left her feeling so rattled. 

He was such an idiot, she’d thought to herself, as she’d tried to be angry with him, though it was impossible to be such a thing for very long, _especially_ when she had _known_ that he hadn’t _intentionally_ set out to hurt her.

_Still,_ she’d felt like the first couple of months after the new year would be a mess at that point and she had the additional problem of _not_ being able to seek shelter in her favourite place if Violet had remained angry or turned against her. She hadn’t _wanted_ to upset the Holmes matriarch. She’d been too good to her. Yet…the _thought_ of not being able to seek solace in Edwin and her, the cottage and the memorial of her parents, which she had a photograph of in every season on her phone, had unnerved her a little.

In a troubled fashion she’d gone to sit on the edge of the cool stone and had looked up at the jutting peak where her parents names had been in gold lettering. They’d shone even in the low light and the fact had almost brought tears to her eyes. The memorial was well cared for. No weeds or moss had been allowed to encroach upon it for too long. Petals from fresh white roses that had been placed on the memorial had blown a little close to where she’d sat, but that was the _extent_ that the weather’s force had been allowed to do any damage and in any case they’d made everything look very beautiful. She’d rubbed one in between her fingers and the scent of it had come off upon her skin. Her vision had blurred for a moment as her eyes had filled with tears. She hadn’t _wanted_ to leave the place. Yet perhaps Violet would decide that she’d overstayed her welcome? That her charity could not be unlimited any more? _Maybe,_ in any case, her relationship with Mycroft was _doomed_ since she already felt such a way. [She’d _known_ that as much as she loved him she would _not_ be able to tolerate such interference by him when it had potential to do a great amount of damage, _especially_ if it had happened continually.]

Lost and confused, anchored only by the familiar cold and smooth touch of her parents’ memorial and the smells that had surrounded it, she’d cried a little.

_Then,_ and not wanting to appear any _more_ ungrateful for being able to stay there for Christmas then she probably already had done and not knowing _how_ long she’d been out for, she’d scrubbed her face roughly dry, gotten herself together the best that she’d been able to and had marched back towards the cottage.

Her body had _still_ been tense when she’d entered it. 

*

A little earlier a further sigh had threatened to escape Mycroft when Mummy and Father had joined him in the sitting room.

“What’s _that_ all in aid of?” Mummy had gestured at the hallway where F/N had been a moment previously.

Mycroft had felt as if he’d been getting a headache, but had tried to remain calm. “She just needs a moment,” he’d uttered, only a _little_ impatiently.

Edwin had nodded encouragingly. “Best to give the lass a minute. She might be all right then.” Mycroft had felt grateful for his father.

“What’s all this about you seeing one another now?” Mummy had stared at him. “I don’t know _what’s_ getting into you of late. First you quit your job-not that it was anything all _that_ unique in the first place-but to become an _agent?_ At _your_ age? You _must_ be having a mid-life crisis.” 

“I’m not”- Mycroft had felt himself reddening at her disappointment and had raked a hand through his hair. 

“Well, what is it then? Has F/N been influencing you? Is _she_ the reason that you quit your job?”

“Mummy, as you surely know by now it would be _very_ difficult for anyone to make me do what I don’t want to”-

_“That_ we can agree on.” Mummy’s nostrils had flared. “So what’s your reason for doing such a thing?” she’d been insistent on getting the answer.

“I’m just-I’m just trying to live my life in the way that _I_ want to. It’s nothing more complicated than that.” 

“And does what you want _still_ involve looking out for your brother and sister, not that you’ve done a good job of _that_ in the past admittedly”-Mycroft had endured the jab and been thankful for the sound of protest that his father had made-“Or will you be turning your back on them now?”

“No, of course not, but they’re _fine_ for the moment.”

“How would _you_ know such a thing?” 

Mycroft’s brow had furrowed concernedly. “Why? What’s happened?” Had Sherlock gotten in trouble in the time that it had taken them to get from London to there? He’d been _certain_ that Eurus had still been where she was on further reflection and that he’d just _imagined_ seeing her before...

“Nothing, but family isn’t just for Christmas, Mycroft Holmes. _Or_ for however long you deem it to be. Things might be all out in the open now-unless you’re keeping anything _else_ from us?” Mummy had scrutinized him.

“No of course”-

“But you still need to look out for them and in a _better_ way than you’ve done previously. You can’t just _quit_ from that role”-

“I’m not _trying_ to,” Mycroft had been frustrated with her.

“You’ll find out, if you’re into romance now, that it’s not that easy, though _why_ you couldn’t have been all those years ago when you _still_ had your hair”-

_“Mummy!”_ He’d rumpled his hair self-consciously.

“Vi, I think that’s quite enough,” his father had felt like things had gone too far.

“Well, what _possibly_ do you have to offer a girl except a large and draughty house? Relationships take hard work and dedication. Something”-

“I already _know_ that Mummy,” Mycroft had been firm, but quiet.

His mother had analyzed him for a moment like a snake who’d been trying to decide where she could strike and do the most damage, before she’d started up again, “Have you told her about Eurus still being alive?”

_“Yes.”_ Mummy had tutted and muttered something about, _‘Not_ airing their dirty laundry in public and didn’t he _know_ that he was making himself look bad?’ “Well, I wish that _you’d_ make up your mind,” Mycroft had been short with her. Mummy had looked at him challengingly and his father had begun to warn _him_ instead about what consequences there might be if he carried on in such a way. Nonetheless Mycroft had continued, “One minute F/N’s _not_ interesting to you because we’ve known her for years and now you seem to be suggesting that we _haven’t_ known her for long enough. We’ve known her far longer than John and you treat _him_ like family.”

“Does your brother know?” his mother had largely ignored his comment. 

“Yes Mummy and he was _fine_ with the whole thing,” Mycroft had groaned, as his patience had neared its end. Thankfully he’d been provided with a good excuse to leave the room when they’d heard F/N return, before she’d headed to the kitchen. “I need to make sure that she’s all right. Excuse me.” He’d nearly turned back when Mummy had muttered that what with all of F/N’s theatrics it would be a _miracle_ if they lasted all that long anyway, but he hadn’t done such a thing and had proceeded to the kitchen. The sound of potatoes bubbling in a saucepan had reached his ears and the scent of pork cooking in the oven had filled up his nostrils.

F/N, who had been in the middle of fetching a glass of water from the sink, had turned around at his footsteps, abandoned the glass upon the counter and had given him a look with hawk-like intensity and folded arms.

Mycroft hadn’t been fooled by her, however, and had only felt fond and caring thoughts towards her as he’d swept his gaze across her straggly hair and reddened cheeks. “Come here.” He’d tapped at his chest and extended his arms like he’d seen other people-his father usually-do in such times and because he hadn’t liked to see her reddened eyes and for there to be _that_ much tension between them. He’d hoped that they would be able to put everything that had happened before the journey and since they’d arrived behind them in that moment.

She’d taken half-a-step forwards and had almost _yielded_ to him, before she’d caught herself. “What you did-it _can’t_ just be mended like that, Mycroft.” He’d looked at her sorrowfully and had been about to say something when she’d gone on, “Is your mother okay with everything now?”

“I think she’s coming around,” Mycroft had been hopeful about the matter.

“That remains to be seen,” Violet had swept into the kitchen and had ordered that F/N help her with what was left to do of the dinner. Mycroft had glanced between them for a moment and _sensed_ that they’d needed some time together, before he’d retreated into the sitting room to talk with his father.

*

“Watch over the potatoes for me,” Violet had told her, “Whilst I sort _these_ out.” She’d held up a handful of carrots that had been so fresh they still had dirt on and had proceeded to wash them and take them over to where a chopping board had already been set up with a grim, determined expression upon her face. Violet had been adjacent to her as F/N had moved across to monitor the saucepan.

For a moment F/N hadn’t said anything. She’d just stared at the bubbles that had emerged over the yellowing potatoes. _Then,_ all the pressure of the fractious environment and possibly losing everything had made her say a quick, “Thank you for putting flowers upon my parents’ memorial and for keeping it so well looked after,” as she’d turned her head.

A beat had passed between them. Slowly Violet had twisted her face in her direction and _away_ from the mostly chopped carrot, which F/N had thought had resembled her _own_ insides nicely in that moment. “I hope you don’t think that you’re going to earn any brownie points from me for mentioning your parents?”

_“No…”_ F/N had said, although she had _willed_ for such a thing. She’d _known_ that her mother had been a good friend with Violet and the idea of her mother happy and having a past life had made her breath catch inside of her throat for a moment. It wasn’t often but every once in a while Violet had spoken of F/N’s mother and given her snippets that she’d been able to hang on to. She’d told her how her mother had appreciated the earthiness of Ciara perfume and had learnt to _swear_ by Tupperware, which had been a trend that had been started by F/N’s grandmother, who she hadn’t seen much of after her parents had died as she'd moved out of the country and had _already_ deemed herself to be too old to single-handedly raise her granddaughter. Violet had also mentioned slang terms that she’d been fond of when they’d been at university together such as, ‘phony’ [who everyone in the vicinity had seemed to be] and, ‘catch you on the flip side,’ which had been her favourite way of teasing Violet whenever they’d parted. Violet had both nearly laughed and cried when she’d re-called the memory and F/N hadn’t wanted to lose the opportunity to learn those things any more than she’d wanted to forego anything _else._

“I can’t give you a free pass just because our families have known one another a long time.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.” F/N had _known_ that Violet was meticulous about everything. Violet had met her eyes, as if to check whether she’d _meant_ such a thing.

“What are your intentions towards my son?” 

_“Intentions?”_ F/N had repeated to give herself a chance to think for a moment. Violet had read her easily and had _waited_ rather than tried to explain herself. _“I”-_ F/N had swallowed and looked back at the saucepan. She’d turned down the heat. It hadn’t stopped it _rising_ within her, however. She’d closed her eyes for a moment, gotten herself together, opened her eyes and let out a little breath. “I don’t have a game plan here Violet”-

“So you are _not_ interested in what he will be able to provide for you? Protection, which he will offer in his _own_ way, of course.” F/N had nodded to show that she had been listening and had been _aware_ that Violet was _more_ than likely knowledgeable of the security that had been around F/N, which she herself had found unnerving and that Mycroft would be protective of her on _top_ of all of that. She’d stiffened a moment later, however, when Violet had gone on, “A little _help_ with your career if you should fall into a tricky situation like you did before?” F/N had, had _many_ ups and downs in her career, but in that moment she’d known _exactly_ which misfortune that Violet had been referring to and had _frowned_ because of such a thing. She’d been young then and made a youthful mistake. “A _link_ to this place and family?” Violet had looked away. “You do _not_ have to be with him just because you are a little older now and perhaps _worried_ about all of us moving on from you. We are a loyal family, the Holmes’s. You should be aware of that by now. Yet there is _one_ reason I _would_ walk away from you for,” Violet had gone on, before F/N had been able to let out a breath of relief.

“If I hurt one of your sons?” she’d guessed.

“If you hurt _any_ of my children, yes,” Violet had said, as she’d no doubt thought of Eurus who had been in the equation again. “I’m glad if you already know such a thing.”

“I don’t _want_ to hurt your son, Violet, any of your children in fact.” F/N had stared hard at the potatoes, as she’d mulled it all over. “And I don’t _want_ anything from him. Only his love”- she’d amended faintly.

“Some would say that, that’s the greatest thing of all”-

“If he is willing to give it, like I want to give him _mine_ if he is willing to receive it,” F/N had gone on as if she had not heard her. She’d _known_ that love was a large thing by then. 

“His heart has always been too open to you,” Violet had _still_ sounded worried and F/N had _known_ that the only reason she’d been open enough to say such a thing had been to warn her, just like how Mycroft had tried to press home the point of how _vulnerable_ he is to her before and how capable she is of hurting him. F/N hadn’t known _what_ to say in order to quell Violet’s fears. She’d just felt under pressure again.

For a while they’d moved about in a semi-eloquent dance as they’d gotten on with preparing the dinner.

They’d been close to serving it when Violet had finally told her, “I used to go and sit by your parents’ memorial sometimes. Think of Eurus.”

F/N hadn’t _known_ that Violet had, had conflicting voices-one that had sounded _suspiciously_ like Edwin-going through her head in all the time they hadn’t been speaking, but had felt _encouraged_ from what Violet had managed to share with her. “Why, if you don’t mind me asking”-she’d realized a little too _late_ that she was about to overstep the mark and had been forced to continue-“Didn’t you build one for _Eurus_ when you thought that she’d passed?”

Violet had given her a look as if to question, ‘Didn’t anyone _tell_ you that grief is a private thing?’ before she’d swept past F/N and gone to tell her husband and son that the dinner had been ready.

* 

Mycroft hadn’t been sure _how_ the conversation between F/N and his mother had gone, but F/N had been quiet and thoughtful [though that had been just as likely _his_ fault, he’d thought regretfully] whilst his mother had kept giving her suspicious looks all throughout dinner. 

There had also been the fact that at one point his mother had said, “I’m assuming that even _though_ you’re together now and we have more room in the cottage this year you’ll be sleeping on the settee, whilst you’re here?” She’d directed her gaze at F/N, as she’d said such a thing.

_“Vi”-_ Violet had turned her head sharply towards her husband at his remark. “I don’t see any harm in them sharing a bedroom,” he’d gotten his point across meekly, before he’d looked down at his food again.

Mycroft had been about to agree with his father-not _only_ because F/N’s presence there would have reassured him about their relationship, but because she _belonged_ next to him and it had never felt quite right when she wasn’t-but F/N had said a little coolly, “That won’t be necessary. The settee will be fine.” Violet had looked a little triumphant about the thing, whilst Mycroft had felt forlorn and anxious about F/N’s words. He’d tapped and shoved his food around his plate more than he’d eaten it. 

It had gotten to a point where Violet had noticed it. “Aren’t you _happy_ with the meal that we’ve prepared for you, Mycroft?” she’d needled him. Edwin had made a little sound around his food, as if she should have left their boy alone, but one glance from Violet had set his attention more solely on his food once more. 

“It’s lovely, thank you, a fine appetizer no doubt for tomorrow,” Mycroft had responded. He’d saved his best smile for F/N, but she’d looked briskly away from him and had paid the _same_ amount of attention to her food as his father had done. He’d felt at a loss.

“Good. I’m glad. It will be a long night and I don’t think F/N or I want to go back and forth to the kitchen all the while.” Mycroft had been tempted to tell her that neither his father _nor_ he [ _both_ of whom had been perfectly capable of cooking for themselves] had needed them to, but his mother had _always_ been the main cook in their more traditional household and he’d _known_ that it would have been a lost cause to try and change things at that point. 

*

It _had_ been a long night. They’d all sat in the sitting room for a time. F/N and Mycroft had been on the settee, whilst Edwin and Violet had occupied the armchairs. Mycroft had _known_ that F/N had felt self-conscious about _Mummy,_ whose attention and disparaging attitude had been on her more often than not. Such interest had _also_ meant that he hadn’t been able to talk to F/N more privately [his father’s attempt to draw Mummy out of the sitting room had _not_ worked at all.] Mycroft had been left feeling fidgety and frustrated. He’d gotten out his phone _more_ than one time, as what had been on the television hadn’t been of sufficient distraction to him, even _though_ he’d had nothing much to do on said phone. The feeling in the room had pushed through every moment and had felt at odds from the warmth, which had radiated from the Christmas tree and the lights that had been on. 

Finally it had been time to wrap up in warm clothing and go to Midnight Mass. Mycroft and his family were not particularly religious, but it had always been a bit of a tradition for them and a way of feeling _more_ like part of the community at that time of year. [It was also a good way for his mother to _both_ broadcast any gossip that she had or hear any that had been going around the place.]  
He’d _hoped_ that he might be able to talk to F/N, at least briefly, in the moments before they’d left or on the way there somehow, but she’d insisted on taking extra long to change and hadn’t joined them in the hallway until his parents had _already_ been waiting there with him. Whilst they hadn’t had enough privacy either in the chilly taxi to make such a conversation happen. [Mummy had sat herself in between them and his father had joined the driver in the front.]  
At the service people had been so _used_ to seeing F/N with the Holmes family by that point that they hadn’t batted an eyelid about her presence there, _and,_ in any case, since F/N had, had a particularly cold attitude towards him and had chosen to stand closer to his _father_ instead of him, they hadn’t had to _explain_ their relationship. Mummy had not had enough confidence to announce such a thing either [Mycroft had felt grateful that she clearly hadn’t told anyone that he would be bringing a girlfriend home that year and had wondered if his _father_ had ultimately been responsible for that, as maybe he hadn’t wanted whoever it was to be barraged by a line of busy-bodies] and had spent a large amount of time talking to people about Sherlock instead and how busy he was, no, far too busy to have joined them there that night.

Mycroft had soon felt adrift from his family. No attempts to shift a bit closer to F/N or to hold her hand had worked, as hers had clenched the order of service at _all_ times and he’d faced _another_ awkward moment when one of his mother’s friends had asked him to pass on a complaint to a particular government department [‘As higher up people than you will probably have to deal with it’-the complaint had been about fly-tipping] and he’d had to explain that he hadn’t worked there any more. That had caused quite a bit of fuss amongst the closest people who had been around them and the _only_ time that he’d felt a _tiny_ bit of pleasure had been when, as he’d explained his complete reversal in career direction and had blamed it on feeling like a change-words that had been an embarrassment to Mummy-F/N had moved a little bit closer to him, as if she had been closing ranks around him and in the mood to protect him even at _that_ point in time. As soon as people’s attention had drifted away from him, however, she’d drawn further apart.

He had been encouraged, however, and so, upon their return back to the cottage [and _after_ they’d wished one another and those in the community a, ‘Merry Christmas,’ F/N had done so to him in a bit of a mumble] had felt _more_ than a little bit frustrated when Mummy had insisted that they all have some cocoa and watch a bit more television, before they went to bed. He’d let out a sigh at how things had proceeded and Mummy had hinted that he should retire if he’d felt so weary. F/N had smiled at the idea and that had made Mycroft all the _more_ determined to hang on. He’d huffed, however, when Mummy had suggested the thing over and over again.

_“Vi,”_ his father had finally interjected, “Don’t allow them to go to bed on an argument.”

Mummy had given him a look, as if to suggest that it would be _them_ who would be going to bed on an argument and had decided to leave them for the night herself. His father had clasped a hand upon Mycroft’s shoulder and had kissed F/N upon the cheek, before they’d _finally_ been left alone.

F/N had cleared her throat a little and had switched off the television, as if _she’d_ wanted to sleep as well. 

Mycroft had looked at her cautiously for a moment, before he’d chanced, “Why don’t you stay with _me_ tonight?” He’d shifted closer to her and had loosely placed his hand over her own. “Mummy doesn’t _need_ to know”-

“I wouldn’t like going behind her back in that way, _especially_ when she’s only just found out about us.” F/N had drawn her hand quickly away from him. 

Mycroft had been sure that there was _another_ reason and that if they’d been on good terms with one another then it wouldn’t have mattered. “Well, take my bed then and let _me_ have the settee.”

“I’m _fine.”_ She’d wriggled further into the corner of the settee. 

“You’re your own worst enemy sometimes,” Mycroft had been hurt, but had tried not to show it. She’d flinched at his remark. He’d stood up. “I’ll see you in the morning then.” He hadn’t bothered to kiss her on the cheek or to tell her to call him if she needed anything-he’d _known_ that he’d be the last person that she’d call on that night. Instead he’d retreated to his room, which had been as basic and unloved as his _heart_ had felt in that moment.

* 

At some point he must have slipped off into an uneasy sleep because when he’d next looked at the time-after his usual nightmare-it had been a little after two in the morning and _everywhere_ had been dark.

He’d thought that he had been at home, back in London initially and that F/N might be beside him, so he’d reached for her, before he’d sat up and remembered due to the precision of the chill that he’d felt in the air that he had been at his parents’ cottage and that F/N had been upset with him. It had been a wonder that he hadn’t dreamt of _her,_ but for whatever reason his nightmare had been about Eurus and Sherlock that night. _Still,_ he’d wanted to see F/N and make sure that she was able to sleep more peacefully than he was so he’d fetched his navy dressing gown-he’d left his best black one with its cream collar and cuffs at home, but the one he’d had, had been warm at least-off the door handle and had wrapped it around him.

He’d been about to step out when he’d heard voices, as they’d permeated ever so slightly from the sitting room. He’d opened the door and had listened for a moment, before he’d crept and lingered outside of the semi-ajar door to the sitting room.

It must have been his _father_ who had been with F/N because he’d heard the sound of the old _‘Pointless’_ episode that they had appeared in being played and he’d _known_ that it had been a Christmas tradition for the pair of them. He’d felt a little resentment for a moment. That was until a _sniffle_ had broken through the voice of Alexander Armstrong.

In the next moment F/N had said, “I just don’t think that he’s _aware_ of how it makes me feel…”

“There, there lass.” He’d heard the comforting rustle of his father, as Edwin had rubbed at F/N’s shoulder. “It will be all right.”

“The pressure that it creates…you _have_ to believe that I love him.” Mycroft’s heart had flipped over at her words, but at the same time he’d felt a pang of regret about how too they’d come second-hand and he’d feared what had been about to happen.

“Oh, I do,” his father had reassured her fervently, “I was _so_ glad when it turned out to be _you_ that he’s been having a relationship with”-

“You _were?”_ F/N had been skeptical of the thing.

“Oh yes,” his father had reassured her, “I can think of no better guardian for the pair of you than one another. And I _know_ that you’ve had these feelings for a lot longer than he’s realized you have as well”-

“I don’t think he _still_ realizes,” F/N had only half-joked about the thing and _again_ Mycroft had felt a little uncomfortable, _angry_ too that the strength of his feelings hadn’t been clear enough to get through to her, but unable to move and rooted to the spot.

“I remember when you fell out. You must have been thirteen”-

“I felt so lonely then. Before that point I’d thought that Mycroft and I would be in one another’s lives _forever._ That we would end up doing something similar and _always_ stay in touch…that was the first time,” she’d confessed, “That I thought it might not happen.” Mycroft had felt guilty and torn, as he had back then at seeing his friend’s tear-stained face and at having her question him, that by going down the path that he’d been made to _believe_ would best protect his family he’d ended up hurting F/N in the process.

“Do you feel isolated now?”

“Yes, because of all the pressure.” Mycroft had sensed that she’d been honest, even _though_ he hadn’t understood what she had meant by that. “I-I want to be the person that he needs, but I’m not sure if I’m enough for him or if I’ll be _able_ to be enough for him at all times.” Mycroft had been astonished that she had held herself to such a high standard regarding their relationship, but then he’d _known_ that she liked to put pressure on herself…part of him had relaxed, not at the fact that she had been in pain, but at being able to understand _why_ she had been a little.  
He’d just been about to announce his presence and reassure her, but she’d carried on, “And I’m beginning to feel _suffocated_ by all that pressure and by”-Mycroft had instinctively braced himself-“Some of the things that have been happening, especially today.”

“Like what exactly?” Edwin had prompted her kindly, but Mycroft had been able to _tell_ that his father had been curious from his underlying tone.

_“Like”-_ F/N had teetered and Mycroft had swallowed-“Like just before we came here he admitted to me that he’s been using his job as my agent to dismiss _so_ many of my possible roles that I now have nothing in January and precious little in February. I know that he'd have to dismiss _some_ stuff that I'm obviously not right for as my agent, but _that_ much? He should have talked to me about it. It’s like I said”-her voice had seemed suddenly stronger-“I love your son Edwin, but he _can’t_ be interfering with things like that. That’s my career. My _livelihood._ How would he like it if I went around losing _him_ clients and putting his career, that he’s only _just_ had the confidence to start by the way, in jeopardy?” Mycroft had sensed her shaking her head. 

His father had been cautious as he’d gone on, “So your old wish for the pair of you to work in the same industry has _not_ exactly been living up to your expectations then?”

F/N had laughed at that for a moment. “Mm,” she’d finally commented, “It’s not that I expected anything unrealistic and fantastical-though maybe I _did_ at the age of thirteen”-Edwin had chuckled-“But I never thought it would be _this_ hard.”

“Then you need to tell him,” his father had been gentle with her. “Before any of those feelings spiral and things can become even harder for you both.”

F/N had wondered for a moment if Mycroft’s father had been speaking from experiences that he’d had with Violet, but she hadn’t _known_ whether or not to heed his advice herself. _“I”-_ As soon as Mycroft’s head had popped around the door of the sitting room F/N had sprung up off the settee where she’d been nestled into his father’s side and had looked horrified. _“Mycroft”-_

He’d gestured with his hand for her not to speak and not to cause any alarm. He hadn’t wanted to wake his mother or a scene would be created and then they’d probably _never_ get the chance to talk. At least not that night. He’d looked at the semi-drunk cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows that had been on the coffee table and that his father must have made for them when he’d found her and had felt some jealousy again, before he’d met her eyes with some difficulty. He’d striven for a smile of bravery, but had _still_ been a little shy, before he’d gone to fetch her and take her by the hand. He’d nodded at his father, who had returned the gesture as tears, which had _hoped_ that they would be able to resolve things had filled the lines of his face. Then he’d led F/N to his room, closed the door behind them and had sat her on the bed. 

“Mycroft I”-she’d looked fearful and Mycroft had _known_ then that she was worrying about how much he’d heard and what he’d made of it all, yet what she’d finally said had surprised him-“I didn’t want you to find out like that.” She’d been _aware,_ the more that she had studied his face, that he’d heard _everything_ that had mattered.

He’d pulled her face to his chest and had sensed her confusion for a moment. She’d let out a little breath, before she’d tentatively put her hands on either side of his waist and had allowed herself to bask in his warmth. “We need to talk,” he’d uttered.

“I know.” She’d swallowed bravely, as she’d pulled back from his comforting scent of soap and spice and had looked him squarely in the eye.

“But first I need to tell you something.” He’d smoothed her hair down. With a bit of a frown upon his face he’d brushed away the trace of a tear that had settled in the groove beneath her eye with the pad of his thumb. Finally he’d sat beside her and had held her close to his side. The light of the moon-something that they _wouldn’t_ have been able to witness in London as clearly-had shone through part of the curtains. “My parents fight, they bicker. You have probably _seen_ that side of them the most over the years, but ultimately they are a team.” She’d peered up at him. His hand had stopped its rubbing on her arm and had stilled around her shoulder. He’d been looking dead ahead and there had been something set about his jaw. “I want us to be that way too. I could think of _nothing_ better.” She’d started to speak, but he’d stopped her. He hadn’t been done at that point. “Something else,” he’d told her, “Is that I may not _realize_ your feelings for me, may find them hard to _fathom_ at times, but if you have loved me for a long time”-her eyes had widened-“Then I have felt the same about you, for a very long while also.” She’d peered up at him, before she’d rested her head over his heart and the material of his dressing gown. “The exact moment”-he’d begun to rub at her arm-“I cannot say, but I know for _certain_ that I’d done so by another Christmas. Do you remember the tale of my brother and Charles Augustus Magnussen?” 

“How could I forget?” Her eyes had found his again.

_“Well…”_ He’d suddenly gone all still and shy. “Then you _also_ remember the punch?” he’d checked with her. 

Her eyes had been on him intently. “Sherlock had laced it with something if I remember?” 

He’d nodded. “And you…” He’d remembered and explained how he’d come back inside the cottage to find that she had been asleep on the settee. He’d believed her to be dead for a moment and his heart had nearly clean stopped at the way that her head had lolled upon her shoulder, as she’d been sat upright. He’d gone across there and checked her pulse. Light-headed as soon as he’d found it he’d sat down beside her and had held her head up with his own, which had rested upon her shoulder. He’d confessed his feelings to her. He does not admit, in the present, that he’d fantasized that the moment between them could happen again. He’d felt close to sleep himself and so had laid her down in a more comfortable position across the settee and had made sure that she wouldn’t be able to fall off it, before he’d thrown a blanket over her to ensure that she had been warm enough. He’d wandered towards the kitchen and had felt _drunk_ on the moment that he’d just experienced. His voice had petered out and a silence had grown between them for a moment in the present, before he’d added, “So, as I hope you will be able to see from the way that you _know_ how I care about all those close to me”-she’d shivered for a moment and he’d drawn her nearer to him, as he’d allowed his body heat to warm her as well-“I am very sorry to have hurt you, both now and at any time in the past, _which,_ by the way I don’t want to rule our future. I don’t _want_ you trying to make up for what I have been through by treating me a certain way or thinking that you have to be perfect. You put _enough_ pressure on yourself, as it is. The chance to be with you is _enough_ reward for me. I don’t _need_ any special treatment.” 

She’d let the air grow still again. “If we’re talking about the pressure I’m feeling then I would feel it less if”-

“You want a new agent?” His jaw had swished as he’d said such a thing and she’d been _aware_ of the fact that he’d hated himself for having let it get that far.

“It’s not your fault. I just think it would be for the best.” He’d sensed that she was resolved about the issue and had nodded. “If we’re going to work-and I _want_ us to work Mycroft, I don’t want to lose you”-he’d felt the same way about her-“Then I can’t be going on shoots and things and _wondering_ what’s happening back at the office with you.”

“Then I think you shouldn’t visit me there either,” Mycroft had decided.

“All right. Then we’ll agree to keep our work and relationship separate.” They’d _both_ agreed to such a thing. She’d let out a bit of a breath and had felt better from the words that they’d shared. That was until she’d noticed that Mycroft had _still_ looked troubled about something. “What is it?” she’d asked. 

He’d looked at her a little apologetically, but there had been a _neediness_ about him too, as if whatever it was had been important. “You’ll tell me though, if there’s a problem at work or something that I can help you with?” He hadn’t wanted her to _feel_ like she couldn’t go to him.

She’d understood in that moment that it was going to take as much time for him to be _less_ protective over her as it was for him to _believe_ in the fact that she loved him, maybe even longer or never at all, and although she’d felt that curl of pressure around her stomach again she’d nodded. She would be more honest from that point on, but she’d _also_ try and be more patient as well. “As long as you promise me to _truly_ try and hear me out every time and _not_ to try and solve it yourself without talking to me first?” she’d checked with him.

He’d nodded. “And I’ll tell you if there is a problem as well.”

She’d agreed. They’d seemed to have reached an understanding.

Their talk, emotional state over the past day, but weeks as well and the late hour-or _early_ depending on how you had looked at such a thing-had meant that they had been exhausted and they’d stretched out on top of the covers of Mycroft’s bed with one another. She’d curled into his side and he’d breathed in deeply, as he’d looked at the ceiling and held his arm loosely around her.

He’d thought of three things. The most important was that he _still_ had her in his life and that they’d managed to come through their most fractious argument yet. They had an understanding, that was the second. Whilst the third was that he felt hopeful about the future.

As he’d remembered again what day it was and since things had become resolved between them, he’d been glad to whisper, “Merry Christmas my dear and may all your wishes come true.” He’d closed his eyes and had drifted off to sleep.


	7. Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support! :3

By the time that F/N had awoken to the grey Christmas morning on top of Mycroft’s white duvet, part of which had been folded protectively over her, he had already left the room.

She’d made the bed, whilst she’d felt a little embarrassed about her lie-in [nine o’ clock had already been] and had gone to listen at the door. The soft sound of voices and carols that had played on the radio beyond that had alerted her to the fact that there had been _more_ than one person up [she’d doubted that Mycroft would have put the carols on.] She’d slipped into the sitting room without being noticed and had gotten dressed as quietly and as quickly as she’d been able to. She’d thankfully managed to use the bathroom unnoticed as well.

When she’d joined them all in the kitchen she’d felt a _lot_ more refreshed and ready to start the day.

“Merry Christmas everyone,” she’d chimed a little awkwardly from the door.

Violet had tutted. Edwin had made sure that she had been all right with kind eyes, before he’d wished her a good day as well around a mouthful of toast. Violet had swatted him with a dishcloth that she’d been using to dry crockery with, whilst the men had sat around the table. 

Mycroft had paused eating his eggs with their runny yolk on toast, swiped his mouth clean with a napkin and had gotten up. He’d been dressed smartly, even on _that_ day, only accommodating his breakfast through not wearing a jacket, having his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie stowed away in the depths of his shirt. He’d pecked her on both cheeks as he’d reached her. She’d smelt the coffee on his breath. “I hope you slept well?” He’d looked at her with a bracing concern about his face.

He’d winced a moment later, however, when his mother had said, “Let’s not pretend that we don’t _know_ that the pair of you shared a room in _spite_ of my express wish for you not to. I _heard_ you whispering. I had to put my ear muffs on.” 

F/N and Mycroft had both blushed at that, but Edwin had said, “Now Vi, sometimes couples _need_ to talk in spite of the late hour. _You_ know that.” A significant look had passed between them and _again_ F/N had wondered about their history and what it had been like to go through what they had. A vague re-collection of Mycroft, as he’d pulled her away from the Holmes’s old property and had said something about his parents talking had come back to her. 

“No point going on about spilt milk.” Violet, finally quelled, had turned away from the scene. 

Mycroft had used the opportunity to usher F/N into a chair by the table. He’d started to serve her, before she’d put a reassuring hand upon his arm and had helped herself. She’d felt determined not to let Mycroft dote on her _too_ much, as she’d worried that Violet would mistrust her all the more if she had done. 

“Anyway,” Violet had come back to herself, “The pair of you better make haste,” she’d looked seriously between her son and her husband, “Or Sherlock will turn up, before you are ready and we don’t _want_ to keep him waiting. He’s ever so busy.” Mycroft had sighed at the realization that the narrative she’d had with the other churchgoers the previous night seemed to have persisted.

“Is Sherlock coming today?” F/N had been _all_ for the possible distraction that he might have brought to the fraught relationship that she had with Mycroft’s mother, though she _had_ worried about how Mycroft might feel relegated if his brother had arrived at the family home.

Violet had looked at her with a kind of disgusted surprise about her face, as if F/N should have already _known_ such a thing. Edwin had glanced at her in sympathy, before he’d quickened the pace, which he’d been eating at.

“We’ll be going to see Eurus this morning,” Mycroft had told her in a low tone, “I got a message in the taxi about it yesterday. I meant to tell you last night, but I rather forgot to, what with everything…” he’d trailed off awkwardly, as he’d hinted at all the disagreement that had been between them. “Sherlock’s coming to take us to the airfield,” he’d told her as an afterthought.

“Oh… _right.”_

“We can’t have Eurus being _alone_ at Christmas,” Violet had interjected.

Mycroft had shot F/N a look of apology that she hadn’t understood, but he hadn’t said a word more.

She’d only _started_ to understand the thing when Mycroft had risen to his feet and talked about the prospect of getting ready for Sherlock’s impending arrival. F/N had commented that she’d do the same and everyone had gone quiet. Edwin had looked up from the quiz book that F/N had gotten him for the previous Christmas [traditionally the Holmes family didn’t bother with gifts until the afternoon or even later still and so F/N had got into the same habit] and which he had been perusing since the end of his breakfast-he’d told her that they would have to challenge one another later-and Violet had stiffened as she’d finished up washing the last of the dishes. [She hadn’t let F/N help her.]

“You’ll be staying here,” Mycroft had spun around with a confused expression upon his face. Evidently he’d thought that she’d _understood_ her role in the day’s events-that she wasn’t to have one.

_“What?”_ F/N had whispered, taken back by the suggestion. What had become of the _team_ that he’d talked of them being the previous night and the promise that they had made to share in one another’s burdens? Or had that been all _talk_ for him?

“Well, you’re not family, what did you _think_ was going to happen?” Violet had managed to say and F/N had felt immediately hurt. Mycroft had made an angry noise in his throat. Edwin had ushered his wife out of the room. They’d heard her protesting down the hallway.

Mycroft had swallowed and had met F/N’s eyes with some difficulty. “You _are_ family and Mummy knows that really, but I _can’t_ have Eurus any where near you and I don't particularly wish to take you there. Sherrinford is like hell itself.” He’d strode to her and had touched delicately at her elbows with his hands. “Surely you are able to understand such a thing?” He’d peered into her eyes with a distinct urgency about him. As soon as he’d been able to _tell_ that she’d sensed some of it, however, he’d attempted to joke, “At least you’ll have a break from my mother being around.”

_“But”-_

Mycroft’s face had turned more serious. “Eurus is talking again. Sherlock's music therapy seems to be helping her. He thinks that it will build a proper trust between them no doubt. But need I remind you that I don't _believe_ any one can trust Eurus? She’ll get inside your head, whether you try and resist her or not and she’ll _plague_ your mind”-

“Like she does with _you?”_ She’d looked at him desperately.

He’d surveyed her grimly. “I won’t allow it. I _won’t_ let her take you from me.” He’d looked on edge about the idea and she’d tried to keep her _own_ feelings under control and just attempted to listen to him instead. “It could have been you.” F/N had looked at him. “Don’t you _realize?_ Eurus decided to take Sherlock’s best friend away from him, possibly because she _already_ saw you as a family member, but it could have been _you._ I feel bad enough that, that happened to Sherlock. Don’t allow me to feel _worse_ by asking me if you can come today.” 

“But I want to be there for you,” F/N had said as she’d tried to stay on track in _spite_ of the notion that Mycroft had just presented her with. The past had been unchangeable, but the future hadn’t been after all. “For us to be a _team._ You need to trust me with your family and them with _me,_ Mycroft”-

“Not with _her,_ F/N.” Mycroft had shaken his head and pulled away from her hands as they’d tried to grasp pleadingly at his. On the verge of frustration and anger he’d looked away from her for a long moment, before his gaze had returned. “I can’t have you being hurt, do you understand? At any point it would…but _now…”_ She’d opened her mouth. “You need to trust me with this. Just as your career is out of my control, so is Eurus from _yours,”_ he’d sounded more like himself by the end, utilizing what he’d learnt from his time in government to stage the bargain.

F/N had thought about it for a long moment. “All right.” Mycroft had let out a breath of relief and made to turn away. “What should I do when you get back? Is there anything specific I should do or should I just try and read your behaviour? Do you _think_ that you’ll want to be left alone?”

As Mycroft had turned to her again he’d realized that she’d never _seen_ him straight after he’d visited Eurus before and that she was clearly nervous about the prospect of doing something wrong. The entirety of him had softened at the fact that she had been trying to be so considerate and he’d encircled her quickly in his arms and pecked her on the forehead. “You’ll be fine,” he’d said. Aside from disobeying his order on the issue they’d just discussed he imagined that there was _little_ that she would be able to do, on his return, to upset him. 

“But My, I don’t _always_ know what to do,” she’d protested. Her panic had increased as he’d made to pull away from her. That’s what much of her anxiety had been about the previous night after all.

He’d kissed her _thoroughly_ considering the amount of time that he had left to get ready. “Trust yourself.” He’d departed.

A little dazed she’d stood there in the kitchen and hoped that he would be proved right.

*

When Sherlock had come Mycroft and his parents had begun to file out of the cottage with only the _smallest_ of goodbyes as they’d fussed with their coats and scarves. Violet had barely acknowledged F/N. Mycroft had given her a bit of a wan smile; Edwin a look full of courage and the reassurance that they would be back as soon as they were able to. 

She’d been able to hear that the engine of the Range Rover that Sherlock had come to collect them in had been running and so she hadn’t expected to see the youngest Holmes brother at all and had not deemed it _appropriate_ to run out and wish him the blessings of the season, considering what the Holmes family had been about to do and all. She’d been surprised then when a knock had come on the front door, which she’d just turned away from.

“There’s enough room,” had been what Sherlock had told her, not bothering with the _usual_ pleasantries of the season, when she’d opened the door to him. His cupid bow lips had snapped into a bit of a brave smile.

She’d thought about it for a moment. About running to the Range Rover and being by Mycroft’s side as they had visited Eurus, maybe even holding his hand and trying to pass any bit of strength that had been available inside her on to him. But then she’d remembered the _words_ that they’d shared, the trust that he’d placed in her and she in him over her career and how he’d no longer be sabotaging it through his good intentions. “Mycroft and I have made an agreement,” she’d concluded. “I _won’t_ be going with you, but thank you for the offer Sherlock.” Instead of protesting or trying to get her to change her mind, however, he’d smiled widely at her. _“What?”_ she’d asked him a little suspiciously.

“Nothing, I’m just impressed that’s all,” he’d shrugged, “You obviously know how to read my brother by now, though am I right in saying that you’re finding our _mother_ a little bit trickier?” She’d said nothing to that and had tried to wear a neutral expression upon her face. Just like she would need to resolve any future disagreements with Mycroft between _them_ instead of tattling to anyone else if she could she also needed to try and conclude whatever was going on between Violet and her _with_ Violet through continuing to talk to her. Sherlock had snorted a little at the determined expression that she’d had upon her face. “Here, have this.” He’d retrieved a small silver and white card from his pocket and had handed it to her.

“What is it?” She’d studied it at the same time that she’d asked him the question.

“An invite to a part-housewarming, part-New Year’s Eve celebration that we’ll be having at 221B.”

“You’ll be able to live there again?” 

He’d nodded. “I paid the men more, so that they’d be able to finish sooner. John and I are going to help Mrs. Hudson move back in within the next few days, before we shift our stuff across.” 

She’d beamed at him. “Oh, that’s wonderful.” She’d hugged him.

“I think I can feel my brother glaring at me.” He’d pulled away from her apologetically. When F/N had looked across at the Range Rover, however, there had been _no_ sign of Mycroft and so she’d become _sure_ that Sherlock had just felt embarrassed by her act.

“Go on then and thanks for this.” She’d waved the invitation between them.

“Bring my brother if you’d like,” he’d called back to her, as he’d already been halfway down the path.

She’d wondered humorously who _else_ she would have brought with her as she’d watched him climb into the Range Rover. Violet had looked like a _queen_ in the passenger seat. Edwin had offered F/N a little wave from the back of it and had then gestured at Mycroft. She’d seen the sharp paleness of his face for a moment, around that of his father’s. She’d lifted her hand in a bit of a wave and had wished him good luck in her head. Then, after a quick toot of the horn from Sherlock, they’d been gone.

* 

She’d tried, at first, to keep herself occupied, making plates of Christmas dinner that could be heated up for everyone when they’d returned. [Luckily, and although she hadn’t wanted to tread on Violet’s toes, she’d stayed there for so many Christmases by that point that she’d _known_ how the Holmes matriarch prepared her Christmas dinner for everyone and it had been one of the few meals that she’d been able to do _without_ the aid of a recipe book, as she’d helped Violet in the past.] 

When it had been ready she’d picked at the stuffing on her _own_ plate, but had saved the rest for later rather than eating anything substantial at that point. She’d cleaned and tidied the mess that she’d caused away. As she’d watched the Queen’s Speech on her own she’d twirled a cracker absentmindedly by her knee. By the end of even _that_ short time she had gotten very restless and had flicked around the channels briefly. When she’d seen that a film noir had been on it had reminded her of Mycroft, for he liked such old films, and it had made her think of both him and his family more consciously again. 

She’d wondered what they were up to. Would Sherlock and Eurus _already_ have played the violin together at Violet’s encouragement? Or had that been yet to come? Whenever it had arrived, as she’d surely felt it would do, how would it make Mycroft feel? Bitter? Isolated? _Lonely?_  
Again, for a moment she’d wished that she might have gone with them all, but she’d _known_ that Mycroft had been right, in the end, to tell her not to do such a thing. If Eurus had been one of the boundaries that she had to hang back from in his life in order for them to be a couple then she would have to deal with it. 

She’d used the spare key to lock the cottage and had gone for a run.

*

She must have been out for several hours. She’d noticed the sky as it had gotten even _darker_ than it had been when she’d _first_ gone out, the shapes of the mountains as they’d become more distinct against everything else and a cold breeze as it had set in, but what had _really_ alerted her to the fact was, when, in the small woods close to the Holmes’s cottage, she’d heard Mycroft calling for her. Her heart had pumped loudly inside of her chest. Had it _really_ been him? She’d heard him again. Jerking into life she’d made to exit the woods.

_“Mycroft,”_ she’d uttered breathlessly, when she’d been close to leaving its confines and caught her first glimpse of the lights being on inside the cottage. 

Then someone had grabbed her from behind.

She’d shrieked, before she’d realized that it had been a tree branch that had blown against her shoulder in the wind. She’d clutched at her heart gratefully. 

The next moment a pale-faced and out of breath looking Mycroft had been in front of her. “There you are. Thank God.” His eyes had scanned her face and body for any signs of injury.

“You’re back.” In that moment it had felt as if _her_ face must have been as wan as his. 

“Don’t ever do that again.” He’d strode to her and pulled her tightly to his chest. “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here for?”

“A while.” It had been a loss to her as to what she’d done so wrong. 

He’d tipped her chin towards him with his fingers. “I was so worried when we got back to the cottage and didn’t find you there,” he’d begun to explain, “I thought that someone had _taken_ you and was close to calling your security, even though I've told them to notify me at once if you're ever in danger. But then Mummy made me see reason and Father said that you’d probably be out here. Did you go and see your parents?” He’d looked off into the depth of the woods. 

She’d nodded, as that’s where she’d spent most of her time. “Did you put the poinsettia flower there this morning?” she’d asked him.

He’d nodded solemnly, before he’d looked a little sheepish. “I know it sounds silly, but I wanted to wish them a pleasant day and to just think about them for a moment.” His face had grown more determined as he’d gone on, “I wanted them to know that we’d made up and that everything is all right between us now.” He’d brushed her hair away from her forehead as if to reassure himself about the thing. “That _is_ the case, isn’t it? Even after today?”

“Of course. Thank you for doing that,” she’d told him, “It’s beautiful. It was such a lovely surprise.”

“I’m sorry if your day’s been a bit rough, however. I was hoping that we would be back _sooner…”_

She’d shaken her head. “It’s all right. I’m sorry if I scared you. I lost track of time. I was on my way back when you called for me. I guess I don’t _always_ know what to do.” She’d felt a little guilty. He’d probably been through enough that day as it was-

“If there’s one thing I want from you after I visit my sister it’s for you, now that we are together, to be in the vicinity. Can you _try_ and do that for me? I _know_ with your work that it won’t always be possible”-

“I’ll try,” she’d agreed and had given his hand a bit of a squeeze. “How is she?” she’d asked him more keenly. 

“The usual. She seemed happy to play with Sherlock and to have the attention of Mummy and Father.” He’d rubbed at her arm with a bit of a frown upon his face. “We need to get you inside,” he’d decided, before he’d volunteered, “Mummy made us eat with Eurus, but thank you for your efforts. You didn’t _have_ to go to so much trouble. Father said that he’d quite like to eat his plate cold, whilst we open our presents and Mummy’s even been good enough to say that she’ll make us a drink when we return.”

“Do you think she’ll _ever_ warm to the idea of us as a couple?” she’d asked him.

“I think she already is.” He’d smiled at her encouragingly, before he’d held out his hand and she’d joined it with hers. “We should go home.” He’d looked a little shy.

_“Home,”_ she’d echoed and had _liked_ the sound of that.

Hand in hand they’d walked and had let the lights of the cottage guide their way. Their breath had misted out in front of them and up above stars had splashed in the navy sky.

Mycroft’s mother _had,_ to F/N’s surprise, urged her to change out of her cold clothes, albeit under the pretence that she hadn’t _wanted_ anyone saying that a girl had caught a chill in her house, and had wrapped a blanket around her once F/N had obeyed her first instruction. Violet had pushed a hot drink into her hand and had made her drink all of it and get warmed up a little, before she’d made her sit beside her as they’d eaten in the kitchen. Their food had all been hot. [Edwin’s idea of eating his cold had been quickly rebuffed by his wife.] She might have tutted when Edwin had handed F/N an envelope that had been full of money for Mycroft and hers joint Christmas present from them, but F/N had thought that she’d been more willing to _try_ and had wondered if the time that she’d had away from her to think and to take in her new relationship with her son had done her some good. [Mycroft had also later confessed to F/N that he’d reminded his mother of their family’s long relationship with her again and had hinted that F/N might have been _hurt_ by the lack of trust that his mother had shown in her since they'd announced their relationship. F/N had been good to them in the past and he’d told his mother such a thing and had gently hinted that it would be _nice_ if she could have more faith in F/N. His father had also agreed with his words and Mycroft had suspected that his mother seeing that F/N had spent part of the day making food for them had _also_ helped her feelings soften a little.]

For Christmas F/N had given Edwin a _‘Pointless’_ board game. They’d gone on to play it in two teams-Mycroft and F/N versus Violet and Edwin because it wouldn’t have been _fair_ if Mycroft and Violet had been in the same team and the parents had won, albeit narrowly, which had pleased Violet. F/N had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had deemed it _best_ to let her do such a thing, but she hadn’t minded the decision. She’d had a lot of fun as they’d played and they’d gone on to hand out their other gifts to one another.  
A Marks and Spencer voucher had been procured for Violet from F/N and she’d accepted it in good grace.  
Mycroft had gotten his parents West End tickets and F/N a reservation for a restaurant that had been famous for its difficulty to reserve a place in. She had obtained a spa break for him, which she’d thought they'd _both_ benefit from. It had been tentatively booked for the spring. He’d seemed genuinely pleased about the thing and had said that he already looked forward to it.

On the whole, as they’d settled into bed that night-with Violet’s permission that time, even _though_ again she’d said that she hadn’t wanted F/N to be cold-F/N had concluded that it had been _far_ from a bad day and had drifted off to sleep with pleasant thoughts in her head.


	8. New Year's Eve

F/N had been putting on her earrings at her dressing table when Mycroft, who had already been kitted out for the evening ahead, had waltzed into the room and placed a hand upon her bare shoulder. He’d felt the tension that had been there for a moment. “We don’t _have_ to go,” he’d said.

“I want to,” she’d uttered once she’d finished fixing the last pearl drop earring into place [they’d been a gift towards the night from Mycroft and he’d looked at her reflection with a certain amount of satisfaction upon his face.] Her hand had gone to where _his_ had still been perched upon her shoulder.

He’d sighed a little. “Well, I suppose _someone_ has to make sure that the place Sherlock lives in is a habitable one.” F/N hadn’t told him that Martha, if not _John,_ would have seen to that as she’d wanted him to hold steadfast to the belief that he had _some_ role to play in Sherlock’s life, instead of allowing his fear that it had eroded even further to come through all the more. She’d just smiled at him and had made to get up. He’d stepped back to allow her more room to do such a thing. She’d blushed a little when she’d noticed how his eyes had roamed down the length of her, before they’d met with hers. “You truly look wonderful,” he’d remarked, a little pink in the face and appearing like he hadn’t quite _believed_ that he’d be accompanying her that evening. She’d felt happy. The pair of them had been busy since their return from his parents’ cottage and that night had been the first time that they’d seen one another since. Her dress-a navy pleated skirt with a black bodice-was modest enough and down to her ankles, but it had nipped into her curves and the fact that it had no sleeves and a daring neckline had helped further accentuate her body. A simple pearl necklace, cream heels and the earrings of course had added a few flourishing touches, but hadn’t detracted from the dress or _how_ it had looked on her. She’d been pleased if Mycroft had noticed and had liked what he’d seen.

He’d looked pleasant in his dark turquoise shirt, light blue tie that had made the less murky colours in his eyes stand out starkly against his pale skin and black jacket and trousers, whilst light brown leather shoes had covered his feet and she’d told him such a thing. He’d pinkened further, before he’d frowned at her in consideration.

She’d been about to ask him what had been wrong, before he’d turned and opened the doors of her wardrobe. His fingers had run across the contents of it for a moment, before he’d further separated a few items so that he’d been able to see them more clearly and then had selected an arty kind of shawl that had dots of white and different shades of blue upon it. Looking more satisfied with himself he’d closed the wardrobe doors and then had returned to her with it. His eyes had smouldered as they’d been upon her. She’d smiled a little knowingly, but had indulged him by allowing him to carefully drape it over her shoulders. He’d been wary not to catch it in her hair and had pecked her firmly on her lips once it had been done. 

“Is that because we’re going to your brother’s?” she’d asked him. 

“No man would be able to _resist_ otherwise, not even my wayward brother,” Mycroft had only _half_ -teased and grasped at her hand. “Come, or we’ll be late.” She hadn’t told him that the invite had said that they should be there for _‘around_ eight o’ clock,’ aware that he’d taken the time seriously and liking to be prompt herself. She wasn’t sure how many people were going to be there, but even if they’d been the first ones there then there was something that she had needed to say to Martha in any case. She’d squeezed at her partner’s hand, they’d picked up the wine that they’d be taking with them as an offering from the kitchen island and had made their way out of her apartment and taken the lift down. They’d reached the pavement at the same time that the taxi for the pair of them had arrived and Mycroft had ushered her into it.

*

She’d long since had a spare key for 221B, thanks to Martha, who had _not_ wanted her to leave or get cold and damp if she had needed to see her one day and Martha hadn’t been there or in her prior role at the agency [the key had been the cause of _much_ jealousy when Mycroft had found out about it and F/N had scolded him when he’d stolen it one day in order to make a copy and Martha had been promptly forced to change the lock because of him] so she’d let them in.

Downstairs had looked much the same as it ever had done and knowing that Sherlock quite liked certain things to be consistent F/N hadn’t been able to _imagine_ that the 221B living room would have changed _all_ that much either, aside from the additions that would have been added because of Rosie, John’s daughter who was a few months old. 

Mycroft must have thought along the same lines, for he’d said, “Considering I helped shell out for it”-that had been news to F/N, but she remembered what Sherlock had said about paying for it to be done more quickly-“You’d have thought that they’d have taken the opportunity to try and _alter_ what’s wrong with the place.” She’d smiled at the idea of what _both_ Martha and Sherlock would have made of _that_ statement, but thankfully there had been no one else in the vicinity. The noise-pop hits in the background that she’d known would grate on _both_ their ears by the evening’s end overlaid with some chatter-had been coming from upstairs. Mycroft had gestured that she should take the lead, so she had done.

She’d no sooner made it to the threshold of the 221B living room when something had flown at her. Mycroft had moved her quickly aside just in time and whatever it was had hit his upper arm instead, before it had clattered down to the floor. As she’d peered down she’d seen that it was a small child’s toy-a yellow plastic ring that had been mostly covered in colourful fabric, which had cartoons of giraffes on it and had only been broken up by the small bells that had been placed into hollows at each quarter of the toy.

Mycroft and F/N’s arrival had attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

“Sorry about that.” John, dressed in a warm brown jumper over a stripy white and blue shirt and paired with jeans, as he’d held the blonde and elfin like Rosie on one hip-she’d looked more glamorous than _all_ of them in a light pink dress-had come to pick it up. F/N had gotten there first and had handed it to him in order to save him the hassle of bending down for it. “Cheers,” he’d told her, “I think Sherlock was expecting _Mycroft_ to walk in first.”

“Throwing all his things out of the pram again I see,” Mycroft had spoken in a withering fashion as he’d gazed past John’s shoulder towards where his brother had been stood in the centre of the room. Sherlock had worn a pink shirt and dark trousers. A shimmer of glitter had been on his belt. F/N had thought that he’d matched Rosie better than even Rosie’s own _father_ had. 

“I think the music’s making him a bit stupid.” John had gestured towards the television set where the music had played. “He did start off doing a violin recital, before he claimed to be bored and switched this on instead. I think he thought it would make Rosie _happy,_ but it’s working about as well on her as it is on everyone else,” he’d griped. 

“I _told_ you it was important to be on time,” Mycroft had murmured to F/N, “We could have _stopped_ such a thing,” he’d been earnest about the fact.

In order to try and _diffuse_ the growing situation F/N had cooed over Rosie and said how big she was getting, whilst Mycroft had watched with a mixture of distaste and fascination about his face and John had appeared to be admiring even though F/N’s attempts had only resulted in Rosie looking at her with a cool sort of interest upon her face. F/N had wondered whether she hadn’t _spoken_ to her in the right way.

“Big and sleepy,” John had uttered once F/N had been done. “It’s time for me to put her to bed. Excuse me. I’m glad you came.” John had pecked her on the cheek and as Rosie’s more interested hand had made to touch at her mostly loose hair F/N had felt Mycroft’s _firmer_ hand upon her waist. He’d pulled her back to him, both in order to allow John to pass _and_ possessively. She’d peered up at him as John had proceeded to carry his daughter upstairs and Mycroft’s eyes had been intent as they’d analysed her. The wine had felt _cool_ in contrast to his hand as she’d held the bottle close to her stomach. She’d felt as breathless as she had done when he’d looked at her _earlier_ for a moment. 

“You going to share F/N with us at _all_ tonight, brother dear?” Sherlock had called across in a goading fashion.

Mycroft had ignored that, that was probably his brother’s way of telling them that he’d missed them [or F/N at least] and had brushed past her and tugged her forcefully into the room. As predicted the room hadn’t changed all that much. Rosie’s high chair had been to one side of the television, colourful toys had littered the table, which, as usual, had been messy and books on babies and toddlers had been added to the bookshelves. F/N had looked _forward_ to seeing how both Sherlock and John would cope with Rosie’s _teenage_ years. 

Martha had been the first to approach in a dark brown dress, which had swallows on and a white underlayer to it. A bit of leftover gold tinsel from the season had been draped around her neck and F/N had been willing to bet that _Sherlock_ had put it there. He’d seemed keen to get everyone in the party season that night. Mycroft had let go of F/N automatically when he’d seen the withering stare that Martha had presented him with, albeit with a bit of a pout upon his face. 

F/N gone off to the side to finally deposit the wine and get a drink for herself and had left Mycroft to re-acquaint himself with his brother.

“Thank you for recommending Alistair to me Martha,” F/N had said to her. 

The older woman had gestured to check with her, before she’d poured her a glass of wine from the bottle that Mycroft and F/N had brought with them. 

“Oh dear, it was no problem. Did it all work out?” F/N had nodded. She’d had a meeting with Alistair ‘Sammy’ Kent who had been a flustered, but well-meaning sort of man from an upper-class family and who F/N had thought had been _very_ generous to meet her considering the season. Not only that, but he’d agreed to be her _agent!_ Martha had known him and had thought that F/N and he might be able to strike up a good partnership with one another because of their respective temperaments and a few other actresses that F/N had worked with before and deemed to have good judgement were represented by him, so she had been in good company, even though she’d _known_ that Mycroft would have preferred her to have a _female_ agent. Martha had handed the glass to her. _“Only”-_ Her eyes had darted towards where Mycroft had been, before they’d gone back to F/N again. 

“It was nothing that he said or did,” F/N had been quick to reassure Martha, even though it hadn’t been exactly true, “We were just on top of one another before,” she’d fumbled, “Trying to work together as well _as…”_ she’d trailed off ambiguously and had awkwardly gestured with her free hand. She hadn’t _wanted_ to tell Martha the _real_ thing that had led to the decision. Not only was Martha _not_ Mycroft’s biggest fan in the _first_ place, but it hadn’t been as if he’d acted with spite in any case and because of the _team_ that they were trying to be…She’d looked across at where Mycroft, still with his shoulders a little tense, had been stood awkwardly as Sherlock had talked to a silver haired man who had worn a cheap suit with a white collar that had stuck up and who F/N had recognized as Greg Lestrade. He already looked worse for wear with his beer in hand. He was a police officer who Sherlock had helped out from time to time. When he had first come on the scene both Mycroft and F/N had been concerned-Sherlock had been using drugs heavily at the time, not _only_ occasionally when his mind had been bored and he had been more vulnerable than ever from their perspectives. Whilst Mycroft had done whatever his government job had _allowed_ him to [and probably more besides] in order to keep an eye on the officer F/N had pretended that she’d needed to talk to Greg in order to be able to play a police officer well on TV. She’d flattered him to get the meeting. In reality though she’d queried him about his intentions regarding Sherlock and had tried to get the measure of the man. She’d deemed him genuine pretty early on, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had been particularly _pleased_ with her for her interference. They’d gotten through it, however…In the present Mycroft had felt her attention and had met her eyes. F/N had smiled at him encouragingly and his lip had twitched hopefully in return. 

Martha had distracted F/N a moment later though by touching at her elbow and F/N had _missed_ Mycroft's small frown as she'd looked away from him. “You _will_ tell me if he does anything else, no matter _how_ I might take it?” F/N had blanched, but Martha had gone on in an easy-going manner, “I wasn't born yesterday dear and he’s not as mysterious as he’d like to make out he is.” F/N had snorted at that. “I've come across _plenty_ like him in my time and I’d rather _know_ what’s going on so I can help you if I’m able to.”

“All right,” F/N had been grudging. "But he's not as bad as you seem to _think_ he is," she'd wanted to get her _own_ point across.

Martha had considered her words for a moment. “I suppose you have a different view on him dear, having known him for longer and all and feeling the way that you do about him. I just want you to be _careful_ around him, that’s all,” her voice had been hushed.

She'd held on to her arm in _warning_ for a moment, before she'd drifted away from F/N at the exact same moment that Mycroft had re-appeared by her side once more. “Everything all right?” he’d been curt, but his arm had wrapped around her waist automatically.

She'd offered him the wine and had watched him drink a bit of it for a moment. “You know that _nothing_ anyone could ever say will make me dislike you, don't you?” Mycroft had squeezed at her waist gratefully.

“Still though, she's the closest thing that you've got to a mother, so it _would_ be nice to have her approval.” His face had gone ashen when he'd realized what he'd said. “F/N I do apologize, I'm”- she'd pecked him on the cheek to stop the earnest apology that she hadn't _felt_ that he'd needed to make. “What was _that_ in aid of?” He'd looked like he'd been struggling to understand the human race again.

“Just a thank you, for recognizing what Martha means to me, though for the record I consider _Violet_ as a mother figure as well,” she’d told him.

“You do?” Mycroft had looked astonished that anyone who hadn't _needed_ to had been able to view his mother in such a way. A sudden thought had crossed his head. “I know that we’re family in our own way, but I _hope_ that you don't see me as a brother?” he'd been both mischievous _and_ a little vulnerable in that moment. 

She'd batted at his arm and the wine had swirled playfully around the glass. He'd smiled at her genuinely and had looked relieved.

“What are you two grinning about?” Greg had joined them and had sounded intrigued. In the next moment though there had been a kerfuffle on the landing as John had come down from putting Rosie to bed at the same time that a woman with brown hair in loose waves and a soft amber and cream patchwork dress had come up the stairs from below. She must have only just arrived for Martha had been behind her as if she'd just let her in. When F/N had looked away again it had been to see that Greg, still with his beer in hand, had been watching the brown-haired lady. There was a particular look of hunger upon his face and it had made F/N smile. 

Sure enough their small gathering or perhaps the _look_ from Greg alone had been enough to attract the woman across. 

Mycroft had introduced them. His thumb had curved across F/N’s hand in a bit of an arc as he’d explained that she had been his partner and the woman-Molly Hooper-had looked _surprised_ that he’d had such a thing. F/N had found the idea of Molly’s job-a specialist registrar in the morgue at St. Bart’s hospital- _fascinating,_ but Molly, as sometimes people had been in her presence, had been _sure_ that she’d recognized F/N from somewhere. 

“F/N’s an actress Miss. Hooper,” Mycroft had informed her and the pride had been evident in his tone. 

“Oh, _wow!”_ Molly had exclaimed a little breathlessly, as her eyes had lit up. _“That_ must be interesting?”

F/N had indulged her a little and gone on to answer her questions about what sort of thing she’d been in and to tell her about a couple of humorous things that had happened on various sets in the past, which she’d found had gone down well with people before [well, with Edwin at any rate!] Molly had been an attentive listener and had reacted how F/N had wanted her to. Slowly she’d begun to relax. Mycroft had done the same thing beside her, though she’d noticed that he’d kept close to her and had often flexed a hand upon her back, as if he’d been reminding her about his presence or reassuring himself about something. F/N had felt tense occasionally from him doing the thing, but had inwardly told herself that just because they’d had a more _honest_ conversation over Christmas it hadn’t _meant_ that Mycroft’s insecurities would be banished forever. They’d probably flare up from time to time and she had to expect that and put up with it, just as she would have good and bad days with her _own_ feelings... 

Mycroft had stiffened, however, when a voice had said, “And now she’s with my brother. Astonishing, isn’t it?” 

She’d turned to be embraced and kissed on the cheek by Sherlock. 

Mycroft had tolerated the action until it had gone on for too long. “I think that’s enough.” He’d made to pull F/N away from his brother, like a parent who had been telling off a child for commandeering one toy for too much time. 

Sherlock had simply turned her, hugged her from behind instead and had placed his chin _gloatingly_ on her shoulder as he’d grinned up at his brother, who had still held insistently on to F/N’s wrist and had frowned at Sherlock. “So you _do_ want to keep F/N to yourself, but I’ve also known her since childhood as well. Shouldn’t _I_ get to spend some time with her? You had her for Christmas Day after all.” F/N had rolled her eyes at such a statement and had shrugged Sherlock off of her. Mycroft had pulled her by her wrist back to his side once more. Sometimes the Holmes brothers had made her sound like the child of divorced parents and someone who was _meant_ to be shared between them. 

“You are all too aware that Mummy and Father were there,” Mycroft had said in a tone of resigned indignation, as if he’d _wanted_ to correct anyone who had thought that they had spent a lovely and romantic day with one another. 

“Did I hear that right? You’ve known them _both_ since childhood? That must be interesting. I thought you were just Mycroft’s _partner?”_ Molly had grown all the _more_ fascinated by her and her voice had risen at the end of her words.

“Don’t do the man a disservice,” Greg hadn’t underestimated what a _big_ thing it had been for Mycroft to be in a relationship, but rather than be _thankful_ for his intervention Mycroft’s hand had clamped suddenly around F/N’s waist.

Frazzled F/N had murmured, “I’m feeling suffocated,” into his ear, so that he’d been the _only_ one who had been able to hear her. He’d released her immediately with a guilty look upon his face and F/N had led Molly off to the corner of the room that was only being occupied by Martha. 

There, F/N and Molly had swapped numbers after they’d urged one another for more stories regarding their professions and Martha had interjected and added her _own_ comments, especially to F/N’s stories, which she’d been more involved in herself. F/N had also clarified that yes, she had known the Holmes brothers since childhood, though she’d been a little vague on the details and had _only_ said that their families had known one another, rather than going into the details of _how_ the Holmes family had been a lifeline for her after her parents’ deaths. 

She’d been on her third glass of wine by the time that Mycroft had joined her again, though she’d only really drunk two and a bit of them if she counted the one that she’d handed over to Mycroft previously. She’d seen how he’d kept an eye on her, throughout whatever _raucous_ thing the boys had been doing around the armchairs-they’d been particularly _loud_ with whatever it was and Martha had touched at her ears the one time that Greg’s laugh seemed to have pierced them-but he’d done a remarkably good job at keeping his brother from her, having _known_ that she’d needed more space. The music, like she’d predicted, had also been starting to grate and bring a dull headache to her temple. She’d rubbed at it a little, before she’d flung her hand around Mycroft’s waist gratefully. He’d allowed her to lean on him a little and had whispered that it was nearly midnight. Despite her energy levels beginning to sag [she may have kept in shape as an actress and been _used_ to making small talk with people, but she wasn’t really used to staying up all that late] she’d been surprised by how quickly the time had flown by. 

“What have you been doing?” she’d asked him for he’d appeared a little flushed. She’d peered up at him and had absentmindedly smoothed down his tie.

“Oh,” he’d said after a little pause, “I suggested that we play some board games”-mostly in order to occupy his brother’s mind, F/N had guessed-“Then I got roped into a little competition with Sherlock,” he’d tried to sound nonchalant about the thing, but she’d raised an eyebrow at him. “I _hope_ we weren’t too loud?”

She’d given his waist a little squeeze of reassurance. “Who won?” 

“You are _looking_ at the victor,” he’d preened, clearly pleased with himself.

She’d turned away with a bit of a smile upon her face, before she’d watched as John, who had been closest, had changed the channel on the television.

Celebrations had been taking place in London and the countdown had been on the verge of beginning. The camera had focused on Big Ben as it had chimed in the New Year and then the fireworks, which had started to go off in earnest. 

She’d grasped at the hand of Mycroft’s that had found its way around her waist and had given it a bit of a squeeze. He’d returned the gesture, as they’d stood there with nearly everyone in the world who they’d loved and wondered what the new year would bring. 

“Did you get a prize?” Her mind had gone back to the board game competition and she’d peered up at him.

“I was allowed to see in the new year with you. I don’t _need_ anything else,” he’d replied, as if to even suggest anything else had been foolish.

She’d kissed him.


	9. Magazine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So grateful and humbled by all your support. Thank you so much! It means a lot to me that my stories about a certain Mr. Holmes can still resonate with people. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter-just a warning that there are scenes of a more sexual nature and discussions around sex and desire that might not be to everyone's taste. 
> 
> This chapter is a continuation from the last one, though you will see that it flashes back to the past at the beginning. 
> 
> I have a proper story forming now and have done a lot of development work on this fic during the past month. There will be the odd out of sequence and more fun chapters, but there will also be an ending at some point. [Not for a while though!] I hope you enjoy the ride!

Mycroft, in his late twenties, had been having a rare moment to himself. It was the weekend so he had the first of two days off from his government job. Usually he would spend parts of it fielding phone calls from Mummy, catching up with whatever needed to be done around the flat that had been _his_ alone until his brother had moved in. [Mycroft would have preferred it if Uncle Rudy could have allowed him to live in the large house that was in the family and which he’d promised to Mycroft after a few years of his government work, so that he would have had more space and at _least_ have been more _comfortable_ in going down the path that had been set out for him, but his uncle had still held out on that in _spite_ of Mycroft already having fulfilled his few years of work and he’d suspected that it would not come into fruition until Sherlock had sorted himself out and Uncle Rudy had _more_ than seen that Mycroft was capable of keeping the secret of Eurus and being the _‘man’_ of the family. In spite of that, however, he had been _sure_ that his uncle had wanted what was best for him.] A lot of Mycroft’s weekends had also been spent looking after the prince of the family-Sherlock.

Yet Sherlock was out at that moment and although the fact had made Mycroft uneasy [his brother’s drug habit had been spiralling out of control and what frustrated him as well was the fact that Mummy blamed him for it, for introducing Sherlock to the _wrong_ kind of people even though he had done no such thing] he had tried to make the best of a bad situation and get on with _another_ thing that had needed doing in his life. He hated to admit it, but there was only _so_ much he could track down Sherlock after all and he’d _long_ since made his brother write a list of the drugs that he’d taken, so that he could leave it nearby or on his person in case of an emergency. 

Mycroft had still felt unsettled about the thing though and he’d swept his hair away from his forehead. [There was a curl in particular that had liked to hang down. F/N had joked that he needed to cut it off if he wanted to look more serious for his job and would come to _regret_ saying such a thing in the future and when he _had_ snipped it off, but at that point he hadn’t done anything about the matter.] He’d cleared his throat and had read aloud from a fiction book at the kitchen table, which had faced the door. The blind had been drawn down over the window that had been situated behind him. A light had blinked on the recording device that had been in front of him. His fingers had held open the page that he’d been reading from. A glass of water that was near by would need to be topped up soon, but Mycroft had ignored the matter for the present and had carried on with his reading. 

He’d been close to being able to turn the page when the front door of the flat had burst open. Mycroft had looked up in alarm and had then frowned and grumbled. His finger had paused-not for the _first_ time, as he’d already had to stop once or twice because of the loud bass music that had pumped out from next door.

Sherlock had stumbled in and Mycroft’s eyes, as they had normally done, had scanned his brother from head to toe. There was something manic in his multi-coloured orbs, but for once Mycroft had sensed the drugs _hadn’t_ been responsible. A possible explanation had lain in the rolled up magazine that had been in Sherlock’s hand, as along with his brother’s behaviour it had been the _only_ thing that was out of place. 

“What is it?” Mycroft had abandoned his place in his book and the prospect of doing any _more_ recording and had stood up. “What’s happened?” his voice had come out a little concerned and breathless. 

“You need to see this,” had been all that his brother had managed to tell him, before his mouth had knotted in an unusually grim line. He’d marched to the table and had flung the magazine down in front of Mycroft. The force of it had nearly knocked the book that Mycroft had been reading clean off the table and Mycroft had tutted for a moment, before he’d become distracted when his brother had opened the magazine to its centre pages. Mycroft had frowned _strongly_ at the tiny pieces of white powder that had become embedded in the pages crease-if his brother hadn’t done drugs that day then he’d _definitely_ been about to. What had stopped him from berating his brother again in that moment, however, had been when Mycroft had taken in the contents of the pages and his entire body had gone rigid, as he’d seen F/N on them, before he’d reddened considerably and hadn’t known what to do with himself. A mounting anger had begun to pulse through him. It had gone from his temple, which had burned with the beginnings of a headache, all the way down to his toes. He’d closed the magazine with the authority that he was beginning to learn how to display more effectively because of his job, but that hadn’t improved things much because F/N had been on the front cover as well, so he’d flipped it over. 

Then, without looking up at his brother, he’d said, “I’ll tell her to come around. Make yourself scarce”-

_“But”-_

_“Thank_ you for passing this information on to me Sherlock, but you’ll have to leave now.” Mycroft’s eyes had risen to that of his brother’s and had left no room for argument. He’d simply been _cruel_ when he’d added, “I’m afraid that you’ll have to find yourself a new magazine as well.” Sherlock had scowled at that and huffed out an indignant breath as he’d made his way to the door. “You should be thanking me for _not_ going to Mummy straight away about this. Not _only_ about your continuing drug habit, but that you’re managing to get your hands on such _filth_ ”- He’d gestured to the magazine.

“It was a friend’s”- 

“Of _course_ it was,” Mycroft had been scathing in his rebuke, “But whilst we’re on the topic I don’t think much of your _friends_ Sherlock.”

“At least _I’ve_ got them,” Sherlock had whirled around angrily, “And we all know the _only_ reason that you’re not going to tell Mummy about this is because then it will look as if you’ve failed F/N, as _well_ as me!” He’d finally made his way out of the flat and the sound of the door had echoed behind him. A banging from the wall next door had quickly followed, as their male neighbour had told them to keep it down in there, before their earlier music had started up _twice_ as loudly.

Mycroft had sworn and become close to tearing everything from the table and damning everyone that he’d ever been made to look after to hell, but instead he’d closed his eyes momentarily, pinched at the bridge of his nose, let out a bit of a groan and swiped his phone off the table. He’d nearly usurped his glass of water in the process.

Too angry to call, as he’d mostly felt more comfortable doing, he’d texted: **Come here. Now,** to the relevant individual.

_Where is here?_

**Don’t play games with me.**

A sullen knock on the door had come about twenty-five minutes later. During that time Mycroft had made a phone call and had gotten quite tired of all the drama already, but he’d still opened the door immediately.

F/N had been stood there in black leggings with a pink stripe and a matching pink fleece top, whose pockets she’d had her hands stuffed inside of. Her h/c hair had been in a loose ponytail. Trainers had been on her feet. He must have interrupted her during a run, he’d thought absentmindedly. She had been stood slightly slouched and had appeared _annoyed_ with him, but it was nothing compared with how he’d felt towards _her_ in that moment. 

Without a word and only a furious glance towards her for wasting his time he’d left the door ajar and had stalked back to the far side of the table. He’d sat back down as F/N had come to stand in front of him.

“I take it you know what this is about?” Before she’d had time to answer him he’d gone on, “And that on your way here you have come up with what you _hope_ will be a plausible excuse, so let’s hear it. I wouldn’t want you to waste it after all.” 

She’d scowled at his smug tone. “It’s good experience,” she’d almost made it sound like a question. He’d _known_ that the best excuse that she’d been able to figure out had sounded pathetic, even to _her_ ears, and so he’d snorted. She’d looked all the _more_ infuriated with him. 

“For what exactly? I thought you were an actress? That, that’s what you wanted to keep on being inside the creative arts industry?”

“That’s right.” Her hands had shaken inside of their pockets.

“What was that?”

“That’s _right,”_ she’d raised her voice a little and had stared at him maddeningly and he’d _known_ then that once again she had wondered _why_ it hadn’t been _his_ intention to go into a job like that any more, but he hadn’t addressed the issue. It had been _his_ duty to keep things in control if she’d let him and not go back over the same old arguments with her.

“Then why did you feel the need to strip to your underwear and model, if _that’s_ what you can call it”-

“What would _you_ call it then?” she’d asked him frustratedly.

“Letting people into the private area of your bedroom, where they should not, under _any_ circumstances, be”-

“So you expect me to be a _nun_ for the rest of my life?”

“If it would help your career, then, yes,” he’d been patient with her. It had been what _he’d_ been doing with his own after all.

She’d folded her arms and had suddenly appeared _both_ defiant _and_ uncertain. “But that’s not what _you’ve_ been doing though, is it?” His eyes had narrowed, so she’d explained, “Sherlock told me that he phoned you when you were with a woman one time.”

Mycroft’s face had become more pinched, as he'd thought that his brother would pay for that. _“Once_ was all it was.” He has needs and he deals with them. “It doesn’t mean that you have to take up every opportunity. People will take advantage of you if you do.”

“But as a man I suppose it’s all right if _you_ do?” she’d shrugged bad-temperedly. Mycroft had looked frustrated with her. _“You_ never miss an opportunity,” she’d tried to provoke him.

“How do you _know_ what I miss?” 

“I’m surprised that you have the chance to be with anyone,” she’d gone on, as her mind hadn’t allowed her to think of what he might have been telling her. “You’re _always_ working!” her mock incredulity had made her loud. She hadn't wanted to think about Mycroft with a woman.

“Well someone has to! Sherlock and you _clearly_ aren’t going anywhere quickly!” he’d rebuked her in a stronger voice of his own. “Am I to take it then that you find _me_ to blame for your discrepancy? Just as my mother seems to blame _me_ for Sherlock’s drug use?”

“No,” she’d begun to shake her head and run a hand through her hair, “That’s not what I”-

“Your parents would be ashamed of you. I know _I_ am.” He hadn’t looked at her as he’d said such a thing and a harsh silence had followed. F/N had swallowed several times and her hands had shaken inside of her pockets.

_“I’m”-_

“Acting this way when other people are _trying_ to do things that will help you focus properly, so that you can become _better_ than you are.” He’d lightly tossed the magazine against the table. F/N had looked at him quizzically. He’d sighed at her probing stare. “Before I heard about this… _debacle,”_ he’d struggled to find a suitable word for it all, “I was in the midst of creating some audio books for you to listen to whenever you have to travel far. I know that you found the trip to Berlin in particular a miserable one”-her face had both _lightened_ at the way that he’d remembered and at the gesture itself-“I _wanted_ you to be reminded of the fact that you have people who are _supporting_ you back at home whenever you travelled, but now I might have to re-consider the entire thing”-he’d looked at her severely and her face had _fallen_ at his threat-“Sherlock’s still using.” He’d sighed and had scrubbed a palm across his face. “I could have _really_ done with a quiet Saturday afternoon today, F/N.” He’d glanced up at her.

“My, I”-she’d looked _genuinely_ upset that she’d deprived him of such a thing and about how _heavy_ everything had seemed to be upon his shoulders in that moment. “It wasn’t as if I was naked or anything. It was _only_ an underwear shoot,” she’d tried to cheer him up, as she’d twirled a strand of hair around her finger repeatedly.

_“Only?”_ Mycroft had looked up at her in a despairing fashion. He’d gotten to his feet. He’d used the table to help push himself up and she’d seemed to shrink beneath him, as he’d done such a thing. “Just because an opportunity comes along does _not_ mean that you have to take it,” he’d told her heatedly. “I wasn’t joking before. People will take advantage of you and yes, unfortunately some of them _will_ do it because you are a woman, just like they seem to have done here.” 

“I agreed to it.” She’d met his gaze shakily.

“Are you _really_ telling me that this is you and what you want to be _known_ for?” He’d scrutinized her carefully. “That if you _felt_ like you’d had any other option then you would have done it?” 

Slowly she’d shaken her head and begun to cry. “No I wouldn’t have. Please don’t be mad with me.” She’d looked at him imploringly. He’d released a little sigh and gone around the table in order to comfort her. Her body had trembled as he’d held her rather rigidly to his chest. “I’ve been so stupid. Now everyone will see and”-

“No they won’t.” He’d rubbed at her arm soothingly. She’d held his gaze as if to break it for one moment would have resulted in her immediate execution or at the very _least_ banishment from the family that she’d held so dear. “Of course I can’t _forcibly_ take a copy away from any one who has already purchased it.” He’d looked at her guiltily. “But I’ve had a word with my uncle and he’s going to make _sure_ that no further copies find their way into shops and the ones that are already there _are_ removed from the shelves. Compensation will be paid for any losses that might take place”-she’d opened her mouth-“Not by _you,”_ he’d left no room for her to argue with him. 

“Thank you,” she’d told him, but she’d still cringed a little at his words. “Your family are going to think”-

“They won’t think _anything_ at all,” he’d reassured her firmly with a bit of a growl to his tone. She’d looked at him then, as if to ask whether or not she was forgiven in his eyes. Her doe ones and the fact that she’d been awoken to the truth by that point had softened him considerably. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he’d been gruff and had let go of her. “Although it was naïve of you,” he’d conceded.

“Don’t spoil it.” She’d tapped at his chest.

He’d smiled a little at that and had held her all the closer.

*

That might have been the end of it, but once F/N had become better known in the industry inevitably the underwear shoot had found its way online and not knowing what to do herself she had panicked and called Mycroft as soon as she’d been aware of the thing.

Martha had _also_ been stressed out about the issue, as F/N's agent at that time, but thankfully by that point Mycroft had, had enough power to be able to sort the thing out by _himself,_ albeit letting out a little sigh, before he’d completely done such a thing.

* 

That year, in February and the first time that it had been Mycroft’s birthday during his and F/N’s time as a couple, F/N had gotten up early, earlier than _him_ for a change, to discover that Sherlock had apparently gotten Mycroft a shredder. It had been on the kitchen island at Mycroft’s place. Apparently Sherlock had snuck in whilst they’d slept. A little note had been attached to it: _‘Now you’ve got the real thing I thought you might have a need for this.’_ It hadn’t made any sense to her and _too_ curious to wait she’d gone to the bottom of the stairs and had called up them, “My? Can you come here a moment love?” she’d _known_ that she hadn’t had to do any more than that. He is a light sleeper. She’d gone back to the kitchen.

Sure enough there had been some movement and a few creaks upon the stairs, before Mycroft had padded down the hallway and made his way into the room, as he’d pulled his dressing gown-the cream and black one-around himself. He had still been a little hazy and his feet had been bare. He’d assessed her and had looked _relieved_ when he’d seen that she’d still been in one piece. He’d walked casually over to her and she’d cupped at the back of his neck. “Happy birthday love.” She’d kissed him.

“Thank you.” He’d been pleasantly flushed and his hands had tangled around her waist. A smile had slid all around his face like an out of control seesaw. He’d tried to go in for a second kiss, but she’d turned her head and had gestured.

“Apparently Sherlock dropped _that_ off in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll have to tell him not to do that now that you might be over”-they’d decided, since people had _known_ about them at that point that they could make use of his place as well-“The _last_ thing you want to see if you have to get up in the middle of the night is”- as he’d been talking to her he’d wandered across to the impromptu present, but as soon as he’d pulled off the note and had read it his entire demeanour had changed and any remark that he might have been about to make regarding his brother had disappeared into nothing. “Did you see this?” he’d finally asked her. His voice had been all stiff.

“Yes, but I didn’t understand it. What does it mean?” her tone had been one of casual inquiry. She’d _sensed_ that something had been afoot.

It had been a few moments, before Mycroft had chosen to react. Then he’d stuck the note untidily back on to the shredder and had run his hand back through his hair a couple of times. She’d noticed his messy tells and had felt uneasy because of them. “Do you know that actually I have a lot of work to do today? Maybe-?”

_“My,”_ a little alarmed at _just_ how wrong things had seemed in that moment she’d grasped at his hand and had tried to anchor them _both_ as he’d spun around. She’d looked up at him a little concernedly. “You’re doing _fine.”_ She’d tried to breathe more calmly. “You went to that big networking party last weekend, you’ve picked up some new clients _without_ even counting that and you’ve still got some of Martha’s old ones.”

“I lost my best one though, didn’t I?” He’d looked at her sadly; as he’d re-called what had unfolded the previous Christmas and had contemplated that he’d made a big mistake once more in the present.

She’d squeezed at his hand, not wanting him to _still_ feel bad about such a thing. “You said that you’d get better on top of your paperwork, so that you could have today off?” she’d reminded him.

“There’s still a lot left of it,” he’d seized the moment and had gently, but _firmly_ untangled his hand from hers. “I’m very sorry my dear. I meant to tell you when we were having dinner together last night.” He’d looked as if he might touch at her cheek for a moment, before he’d thought better of doing it.

“What’s going on?” She’d put her hand on her hip and had studied him intently. He’d leant and had looked away from her. “What about Sherlock’s note has got you so rattled? What does it _mean,_ My? _Please_ tell me.” She’d tilted his head back to face her. There had been an urgent look in her eyes.

He’d grimaced and had gingerly removed her hand from his face. He’d drawn his dressing gown around himself a little more tightly and had run a hand through his hair. He’d walked into the living room and she’d followed him. 

He’d taken the armchair so she’d taken the side of the settee, which had been closest to him. His blue eyes had skittered against hers, before they’d darted away. She’d blown out a breath and then had sat back as she’d tried to be more patient with him. Mycroft had remained hunched forwards. His hands had fidgeted as they’d clasped together. “You know that I-well _despite_ what people might think and what even _you_ might have from time to time I’m not a-well I’m _not_ a robot.” His hand had run through his hair frustratedly. It had not been an easy thing to explain. “You remember that I have… _needs?”_ she’d barely been able to hear the word as it had escaped from his lips, but when she had done such a thing she’d flushed. “As does everyone else.” His eyes had glanced at her curiously for a moment, looked away and then back once more. 

“I never-I mean I”- Despite her bravado as _not_ living life as a nun she’d never had a sexual relationship with anyone before and had quickly closed her mouth. Had they been talking about the same thing? 

He’d opened his mouth, before it had drawn shut again. He’d been a little emboldened by her honesty, even though he’d felt sure, what with the amount he’d watched her over the years, that he would have _known_ if she’d been with anyone, but still hadn’t known how to explain things and had run a hand through his already ragged hair, before he’d gotten to his feet. “Wait here.” She’d nodded and moved back to give him more space. He’d squared his shoulders, as if he’d been determined, before he’d gone back upstairs.

He’d returned a few moments later, as he’d held a magazine, which he’d presented nervously on the coffee table in front of her.

She hadn’t had to glance at it _much_ to get the general idea of what it had been about. _“Oh”_ -she’d looked away from it hurriedly, as if she’d been burnt-“I didn’t know that you were into all that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” she’d corrected herself hurriedly, “I mean plenty of people _are.”_

He’d cleared his throat impatiently. “Turn to the centre pages.” He had been able to _tell_ that she hadn’t processed the cover image of herself properly and had been getting the wrong idea.

She’d glanced at him, as if to check whether he’d _really_ wanted her to do such a thing. His fantasies and desires had still been something that she feared she would be unable to live up to. His eyes had been mostly _robust,_ however, so she’d turned her attention to the magazine, slid forwards and had gingerly begun to turn its pages. Her breath had caught in her throat when she’d turned the last page that she’d needed to. She’d exhaled and then blinked in astonishment when she’d seen herself there. An idea had surfaced.

For a moment she hadn’t said anything. _Then,_ as she’d needed to check with him, she’d murmured, “I thought you got rid of them all?”

“I kept a copy. I thought it would be wise to at first and _then…”_ Mycroft’s breath had caught inside of his chest.

“And _then?”_ she’d hoped even as she’d wondered that she was on the right trail of thought.

They’d both grown redder from the intensity of the others stare, but neither of them had been able to look away.

“My needs became caught up in one person.” She’d continued to stare at him and had _needed_ him to say it more plainly. He’d huffed out a breath at her lack of self-confidence. “I grew more and more attracted to you every day. It felt wrong at first because you’d been part of the family for so long and I hated myself for it after”-in disbelief about the whole thing she had not asked, ‘after _what?’-_ “I told myself everything under the sun-that it was my _job_ to protect and care for you like I did with Eurus and Sherlock and like I would not feel that way towards _them_ I should not feel that way towards _you.”_

“But we are not blood relations,” she’d managed to say when he’d paused for a moment, “Nor are we related in any other way.”

_“No…”_ Mycroft had wet his lips a little and F/N had become conscious of her _own_ dry throat. “And so even though I told myself that I was your guardian, that I was this or that, I could not help but look”- _more_ than just Mycroft staring at the images had been implied by his meaningful glance-“From time to time and no matter how _guilty_ I ended up feeling it wasn’t enough to make me stop, nor apparently did I cover it up well enough for it to escape Sherlock’s attention.”

_“That’s_ what he meant by the note?” she’d tried to clarify.

_“Mm.”_ Mycroft had, had a troubled expression upon his face. Hands by his side he’d stood just beyond one of the four corners of the coffee table and had watched her carefully. “I hope that this won’t change anything between us,” he’d told her gravely. “I appreciate that it must be a very _weird_ thing to imagine”-that had been an _understatement-_ “I know it’s not much of an excuse, but I wasn’t really ever expecting to”- Still red he’d gestured down the length of her body awkwardly.

“Get the real thing?” her voice had been a little faint.

“Yes, well, I”- He’d shifted awkwardly from side to side in his dressing gown, a half-pleased, half-flustered smile upon his face.

As she’d felt too hot herself she’d glanced down at her old modelling photographs and had quickly begun to feel self-conscious. She’d _always_ been a little curvy, but as she’d looked back over the photographs she’d recognized that she’d changed in _other_ ways-she had the odd blemish that she hadn’t had at the time of the photographs, or that had least been covered up better back then and her skin had loosened up in places that she’d felt incredibly aware of. Finally, when she’d become _sure_ that she’d spent far too long looking at the photographs; she’d managed to look up at him bravely. “You _know_ that I don’t look the same now as back then, right? That whatever you’re expecting”- she’d _tried_ to sound casual about the whole thing and manage his expectations, but he’d detected her vulnerability, just like she had with _his_ own earlier.

He’d planted his feet a little apart, but _firmly_ upon the floor. “My dear, for reasons that I cannot fathom, I’ve never truly wanted any one like I have you, so it doesn’t matter to me _what_ you look like.” Nobody had ever said anything like that to her in the past and she’d _known_ then that his words had been honest, as he’d spoken them with such _fervency._ They’d set a fire inside of her. She was still afraid, a small part of her would _always_ feel such a thing, but she was no longer as terrified as she _had_ been. She’d _known_ that there was only one path forwards and it was with him. 

Slowly she’d stood up. He’d looked a little unnerved by her doing such a thing, but she’d valiantly gone ahead and said, “So what are we waiting for?” He’d swallowed. “I mean of _course_ if you don’t want to…” she’d turned a little shy. “But we’re both adults, we’re in a relationship exclusively with one another, we’re _trying_ to be more honest with one another and I want to thank you for telling me about this My, _really_ it means a lot to me.” She’d gone around the edge of the coffee table and had bridged the gap between them.

“You don’t think I should have told you about this before?” He’d checked with her and had gulped a little nervously.

“I can see why you _didn’t,”_ she’d responded, as her hand had smoothed down the material of his dressing gown. Underneath her fingers his heart had pumped quickly. Her own had done the same inside of her chest. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate before now and considering how you blew up at me I might have been a little bit cross.”

“Only a _‘little’_ bit?” Mycroft had teased and they’d kissed, before F/N’s lips had dragged lingeringly away from his as she’d come down from being on tiptoes. Mycroft had let out a large breath. “Did you have any other reasons for why we should-?” his voice had turned husky. 

“We’re in love.” _That_ had been the biggest reason of all. They’d kissed again twice in quick succession. F/N’s hand had gone to the nape of his neck and Mycroft had shivered pleasantly, before he’d pulled away from her. She’d made a sound of protest. “Plus it’s probably too late for us to need to think about being safe or the prospect of children, so we don’t need to _worry_ about those complications,” she’d tried to make it sound like a positive in order to further persuade him, but he’d _felt_ the regret that had been there about the way the timing of things had worked out for them in _that_ aspect. 

“I _still_ want to be safe”- he’d told her gently, as he’d wanted to guard her innocent wish. He hadn’t been ready to be a father. He might once have _wanted_ to be-pictured himself as the successful head of a large family-but that had been a long time ago and he hadn’t wanted to _risk_ another Eurus turning up. 

“That’s one thing, but if you’re going to ask me if I’m _sure”-_ she’d sounded frustrated with him. 

“I want it to be special for you,” he’d clarified. “What I _don’t_ want you to do is regret it or wish that we’d waited or that something could have _gone_ differently. I’ve hurt you enough. I don’t want to any more if I can help it.”

“But if we waited then what would we be waiting _for?”_ She’d held her hand against the back of his neck and had pushed against him insistently. His chest had risen and he’d exhaled. “I love you and you love me. I can’t think of a _more_ perfect moment, given what we’ve just discussed and all.” She’d looked at him a little mischievously and there had been a bit of a grin upon her face. “I want to learn what your fantasies are”-she’d touched at his arm-“What you were thinking of”-she’d glanced over her shoulder and across at the magazine-“I still can’t _believe”-_ She’d shaken her head as if it had been an incredulous thing to her that he’d wanted her physically the entire time. 

“I want to know _yours,”_ Mycroft had murmured, as he’d tucked a strand of hair behind her ears with an intense look upon his face, _“But”-_ he’d faltered as if a more desirable thought had pulled at him and his eyes had suddenly been far off in the distance.

_“Yes?”_ she’d wondered, and she’d pulled his gaze back to her with that word alone.

“I want to get to know your body,” Mycroft had confessed to her, his voice a little hoarse, “When we-When we make love I would like it if, and be _happier,_ if I should know where and _how_ you like to be touched.” She’d flushed and he’d done the same even though _he’d_ been the one who had spoken the words. “If I could at _least_ make it a memorable experience for you even if it _doesn’t_ take place anywhere special in the end.” 

“This is something that you’ve thought about?” She’d gotten more turned on.

_“Mm.”_ His face had been a little blotchy with colour at that point and she’d _known_ then that his mind had returned to the contents of the magazine. His eyes had avoided hers, before they’d flicked back to them as he’d gone on quickly, “Though of course I would like it if it were someplace special. I want it to be _perfect_ for you.”

“And _when_ do you want to start to learn?” she’d been forwards with him.

_“Now_ would be appropriate I think, unless you-?”

“I have no objections.” 

He’d looked _both_ a little bit scared and pleased about the fact, before he’d grasped at her shoulders, pecked at her lips, pulled away a little breathlessly from her and gone to check on the front door. Since neither of them had been anywhere _near_ it since the previous night it had made no sense for it to be anything _but_ locked, but he’d wanted to make sure.

F/N had come up behind him as he’d wasted a few moments as he’d checked the adjacent security system. _“My?”_ She’d slipped her hand over his.

_“Mm?”_ He’d been nervous.

“I need you.”

He’d turned around with his eyebrows lifted and questioning eyes. She’d pinned him gently against the security system and had kissed him a few times, her hands over where his splayed ones had been lowered against the wall. The security system had beeped in response to the contact it had, had from the back of Mycroft’s head and they’d both chuckled a little embarrassedly as he’d partially turned around to check on it. His hands had moved away from hers. When he’d established that it had been fine he’d turned back to her. She’d placed his hand upon her thigh, but he’d raised it and had stroked at her hair instead. Slowly his gaze had turned more serious. 

_“I”-_ his hand had stilled and his eyes had drifted along the hallway for a moment. “What you have to understand,” had been what he’d said to her as he’d looked back, “Is that as much as you might _believe_ that you’ve changed from the photo shoot I’ve never”- he’d broken off and had moved his gaze away from her. The hand that had been in her hair had lowered. She’d allowed him to think for a moment and eventually he’d returned his eyes to her. “I might have had the odd night with people, but my body is never something that I’ve had much confidence in. I’ve just used it as a tool, a _vessel_ in the past…” 

She’d wanted to _change_ that, but had been aware enough of the signals that he’d been giving out and from what he’d just said that he wouldn’t have been comfortable if she’d tried to do it on _that_ day and that they’d have to take _small_ steps. “Then why don’t we focus on _mine_ right now?” Mycroft had looked immediately happier, but it had been F/N’s turn to be suddenly nervous. “How do you-?” 

“The bed,” he’d guessed what she’d been about to say, “Whenever I pictured it with you I saw us on the bed.” They’d _both_ blushed at the image that his words had conjured and Mycroft had avoided her eyes once more, before she’d squeezed at his hand and had led the way upstairs.

She’d gone inside the room, which, by that point, she’d felt as if she’d left several hours ago, even though it had not been that long at all. It was a big jump to go from innocently sleeping with one another to whatever it was that they’d been about to do after all. The duvet had been a little bit rumpled because of the unexpected wake-up call that she’d given him. She’d perched at the end of the bed, whilst he’d closed the door behind them. In further hope of keeping uninvited guests like Sherlock from them he’d pushed the dark wooden chair that had been in his room against the door. That would buy them a _few_ more moments at least. Half-within view of the full-length mirror she’d crossed and unfolded her legs, as she’d suddenly not known how to sit. He’d turned back to her and had picked up on her apprehension beneath the half-smile that she’d worn. 

“Lie back on the bed my dear.” He’d _known_ that he’d needed to relax her. 

She’d done as he’d instructed, but her heart had pounded a little as she’d heard him, as he’d removed his dressing gown and hung it on the door. His bare feet had barely made a sound as he’d padded across the floor and joined her on top of the duvet.

“Turn to me,” he’d murmured, after he’d gotten settled and had taken in her ragged breathing for a few moments.

She’d done such a thing and for a moment had _believed_ that they might have just woken up again, only that his light blue silk pyjamas had felt even more inviting to her eyes than they had done previously. 

He’d cupped at her jaw and had placed his other hand upon her waist. He’d kissed her probingly for a few moments, until she was relaxed, before his body had instinctively turned her and he’d come to be on top of her. His hands had held him up a little, not wanting to startle or-worse of all- _crush_ her.

She’d _still_ looked a little shocked at the sight of him above her and had wriggled initially at the feel of his warm breath upon her face and neck, but her eyes had looked curious about what might happen next and it hadn’t taken _too_ long, as he’d kissed her, for her body to relax and fully sink into the bed again. 

His hands had found her waist and he’d lifted her up a little against him, as his lips had continued to nip at hers. He’d been trying to keep a small gap between them, but as his body had acted instinctively he’d thrust against her and she’d let out a sharp breath and had pulled away from his kiss. 

_“My”-_

“I apologize.” He’d known _exactly_ what she’d felt in that moment and had been able to feel her heart beat as it had _thudded_ beneath him.

_“My”-_ she’d panted again and her hands had pushed against him. He’d been concerned that she’d wanted them to stop at that point, but then she’d gone on, “I need-I want”- not in control of herself she’d shuddered a little. He’d retreated until he’d been knelt between her legs. He’d been breathless as well. She’d sat up and they’d looked at one another dazedly for a moment.

“What is it that you want?” his voice had sounded far away, even to his _own_ ears.

“Less layers.” They’d locked eyes and Mycroft had suddenly been back in the room. His heart had given one particularly loud thump inside of his chest. 

He’d slowly reached forward and had pulled the warm jumper that she’d chosen to wear that day off from the top as she’d pushed impatiently at it from the bottom. Her thin t-shirt had come loose in the same moment and she’d let out an involuntary cry as her hands had come into contact with her already sensitive nipples, the peaks of which had been visible underneath her bra.

_“My…”_ Her breathless gaze had focused on him, as he’d deposited her jumper and t-shirt on the floor without much care. In contrast the gaze that he’d swept across her collarbone-and no lower-had been _studious._

“Would you be willing to take off your trousers for me? I’d like to see you in your underwear.”

“I’m sure that you would,” she’d said, suddenly playful and he’d been pleasantly surprised by her mischievousness and again _grateful_ of her acceptance of the magazine. He’d smiled, but had been surprised _when,_ instead of giving a further answer to his question, she’d grasped at his hand, undone the button of her trousers and gone on to push his hand down and against her knickers. His body had rolled in response and he’d grown _very_ still for a moment. _“My…”_ She’d pushed his hand down lower and had rubbed at it to encourage him to move. He’d swallowed, before he’d both found and outlined the shape of her in her underwear. He’d been alert to how she’d reacted the entire time and had returned to gently probe into her folds once he’d gone from one edge to the other. Her hand had clutched instinctively at her breast.

“Allow me.” He’d inched closer to her and his hand had come to rest against the side of her chest, before two of his fingers had surrounded her nipple teasingly over her bra and had remained there. She’d put her hand upon his arm and had both stroked encouragingly and tensed up as he’d carefully drawn her underwear aside enough, so that his finger had been able to enter her properly. The fingers on his other hand had grazed closer against her nipple as he’d done such a thing and she’d moaned.

_Again,_ he’d taken his time with her. He’d gone carefully around, satisfied by how warm and wet she’d been and had acknowledged the way that she’d lifted herself up so that he’d been able to go deeper with a soft grunt of his own. He’d flexed one finger and then two inside of her, whilst her arm had been around the back of his neck for balance, she’d grown tenser and tenser all the while and her body had started to arch and ride out his administrations.

As he’d needed some relief himself and sensed that she had been close he’d withdrawn his fingers. Her knickers had snapped back into place and he’d groaned as the lower halves of their bodies had started to grind together. F/N had gotten so breathless that she’d ended up on the bed beneath him, as he’d fisted the duvet around her.

They’d laughed a little awkwardly after they’d come-F/N had writhed and cried out on the bed, her eyes had rolled as she’d fought for breath and Mycroft had gotten lower and lower upon her, his eyes squeezed shut as his jaw had clenched. They’d been like _teenagers!_ So desperate for one another that they’d peaked in their underwear.

He’d flopped down by her side once more.

“Thank you,” she’d murmured after a moment, as she’d still been a little short for breath.

“For what?” Apart from the obvious he hadn’t been able to think of anything and he hadn’t expected her to _thank_ him after every time he pleasured her-with the amount of times that he was _hoping_ to be able to do that for her it would have gotten slightly ludicrous.

“For _this.”_ She’d been ambiguous and he’d wondered if she really _was_ thanking him for the enjoyment that he’d given to her for a moment. She’d grasped at his hand and had turned to face him. They’d moved until they’d been close together, her head nestled beneath his chin. She’d played with the collar of his pyjama top, which he’d felt distinctively sweaty underneath, but neither of them had particularly seemed to _mind_ how their bodies had worked in that moment. “I think it will make it more special the way that you want to do it.”

“I’m glad,” he’d been honest, as he’d held on to her. He’d felt the curves of her, which had been so volatile against him a few moments ago and had hardened again. A clock had chimed downstairs and F/N had giggled and Mycroft had chuckled a little at their impromptu return to bed that morning. “Well, you’ve _already_ given me your present, but I suppose we better get up properly now.” His eyes had shone with something light and mischievous-the blue had come through the grey landscape as he’d gotten closer to reaching his high-and he’d disentangled himself from her and sat up.

“What will you do about the shredder?” 

Mycroft had thought about it for a moment. “I think I might leave that to _you.”_ He’d turned back and had tapped her upon the nose. 

F/N’s legs had moved around a little, whilst she’d considered the thing and he’d been tempted to pin her to the bed. “I suppose I might be away for work sometimes…” she’d considered. “And if I _am_ then I won’t be able to pick up your booty calls _all_ the time.”

_“ ‘Booty calls’?”_ He’d arched a brow and had wrinkled his nose at her. His hand had drifted across her stomach absentmindedly and had sent shivers down her spine. She’d made a little sound and had rolled against him. He’d kissed her briefly and had tried to calm her.

“Mm. If we want to do something like this over the phone.”

He’d withdrawn his hand from her and had looked amused. “My dear, when we are away from one another we will be chaste, in _every_ sense of the word.”

“Oh _really?”_ It had been her turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “And what if I have _needs,_ whilst I’m away?”

Mycroft’s face had smouldered for a moment. “Then you should call me. And I should keep the magazine?” he’d been more unsure of himself and his tone had increased in pitch because of it.

“Mm. Keep the shredder for the _boring_ stuff.” She’d winked at him and he hadn’t been able to resist going in for a kiss, before the pair of them had finally gotten up to start their day.


	10. Covid-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your continued support! :3
> 
> This chapter skips ahead to 2020 and has references to things that will be explained in more detail in future chapters [so don't worry if you don't understand it completely yet, as you're not meant to!] I just thought it would be better to post it now because of the references to Covid-19, so I hope you enjoy the early tantalizing teases at future chapters. :)

**2020**

Coronavirus had started to spread amongst communities throughout the world. In the UK the government had been putting out mixed messages about the effectiveness of face masks and although the elbow bump _had_ been suggested as another way for people to greet one another [not for the _first_ time during a health crisis, though it had still made Mycroft cringe a little to see people doing such a thing] even the Prime Minister had been shaking hands with people and _not_ following the basic concept of social distancing. The Prime Minister _was_ Boris Johnson, however, so Mycroft hadn’t hoped for all that much and though he _had_ predicted that a lockdown was imminent it had yet to be implemented.

One night Mycroft had broken the news, as F/N and he had faced one another in bed, that the government had asked him to return to his _old_ job. 

F/N had stiffened, and although she’d told herself later that she shouldn’t have been surprised she _had_ felt a bit shocked about the thing initially. The prospect of the government making such a request _had_ darted through her mind once or twice, but she hadn’t _truly_ believed that they’d go through with the thing, possibly out of a sense of pride because of what had occurred before. She hadn’t been _bold_ enough to discuss the thing with Mycroft, but he’d come out with statements, which had seemed to suggest that he’d _shared_ in her sentiments and believed himself to be yesterday’s news. Either that or he’d been trying to reassure the pair of them. They’d _both_ seen in the news that retired NHS staff were being re-called to work. Neither of them had _dared_ bring up the fact that _he_ might be. F/N had just hoped that he _wouldn’t_ be.

“I hope you told them where to go,” she’d said, even as the sense of foreboding had risen inside of her and she’d _known_ then deep down that his natural way of taking on burdens would have made him susceptible to agreeing to the fact that he should return. There was the issue of his health again for one thing, for she hadn’t trusted the government to keep their staff safe any more than _he_ had done, but also all the work that they’d put in to get him out of that situation in the _first_ place… 

“Yes, I told them, ‘no.’” He’d run a reassuring hand down her side, but she’d sensed that there was something that he still hadn’t been telling her and had been uneasy about the fact.

“Was it easy for you?” He’d looked at her a little questioningly, as she'd tried to figure it all out and make sure that the step he'd taken had _truly_ been the best one for him. “I know that you’d be reluctant _not_ to go back if you thought that you could genuinely help and make a difference…no matter _what_ they might have made you do in the past.” She’d cleared her throat a little and had tried to stop her mind from going back to that dark time when she’d found out the _extent_ of Mycroft’s government job. “If you could help prevent your parents from getting sick for example? They’re in a higher-risk category than we are and we know full well that although Edwin will listen about wearing a mask and social distancing that Violet is at the _opposite_ end of that spectrum.”

He’d appeared surprised and then a little exasperated by her words. “I turned them down _because_ of you,” he’d told her, “Because I _knew_ that you wouldn’t approve of it and because…oddly enough, I _like_ how things have been since I last worked for them. I know that it took me a while to get used to it, but I’m happier, I have more control working where I do… _we’ve_ been doing better in our relationship and we’d have to live apart if I went back to work for the government again. I could not chance you becoming ill. Are you _really_ suggesting now, after all of that, after _everything_ that we have both been through, that I should go back and work for the same people who you considered to be so heinous only a few years ago?” 

She’d stared at his collarbone as she’d ruminated on the subject. She hadn't been fully convinced that he'd moved on. “When everything that happened, happened,” she’d finally begun and her eyes had flicked back up to his, “I took the view and side I did because the government was _not_ a healthy place for you and only one in which you would have ruined yourself for out of a sense of _duty,”_ she’d told him. “You would have done _anything_ that you could to protect people. Important people still, I know,” she’d added as his expression had turned cloudy, “But you would have ruined yourself all the same.”

“You _never_ liked me working there,” Mycroft had been bitter.

“It’s more complicated than that.” Her hand had moved to his waist and again she’d stared at his collarbone. “Yes, at first I thought you’d gone a little crazy, that you were throwing your life away and going to be _bored_ when you could have been _so_ much more, and in my eyes, of course, ‘so much more’ was what _I_ did, even if, in reality, it wasn’t, but I lamented the fact that your job might have an impact on our friendship. Then I understood that it was about your family and I _got_ why you’d done what you had. I was _happy_ when you took the chance to do something else, I can’t deny it, and more importantly, something for _yourself_ after all this time. I hated the darker elements about your job when I found out about them, but this is _different,_ My.” She’d appealed to him with her eyes at that point. “You have the opportunity now to do something that might help. Something _pure._ What if, through your organization skills, you were able to help, not just your family, but others up and down this entire country and ensure that they, and others like them around the world, were able to get a safe and secure vaccine as soon as possible? I’m not sure if you’d be able to _live_ with yourself and just _watch_ things get worse and worse and I’m not sure if I’d want you to. I don’t want you to back away for any reason that has to do with me. If you can just go back to the government for the duration of this crisis and then leave them again on a more positive footing and _before_ they can ask you to do anything more corrupting, then I think that you should. I think it might be good for you, allow you to _finally_ walk away from things in a healthier way.” Although he'd consented in a way before she’d regretted that it had been after other people and _herself_ had already acted sufficiently on his behalf, not giving him as much of a free choice as she would have _ideally_ liked to. She'd worried that, that was why he hadn't moved on. But if they'd waited for him to see sense then God _knows_ what would have happened... 

“There’ll be nothing healthy about it if I get ill,” he’d rumbled. 

“Of _course_ I don’t want you to get ill,” she’d told him, “But I know what you’re like and I don’t want you having any regrets. As much as what you did before was for your family I don’t think, should the truth be known, that you like _anyone_ getting hurt, and I think that you’d do anything to stop it if you could.” He’d sighed and had rolled on to his back. “It doesn’t _have_ to be you,” she’d seemed to guess at the sulky thought that had been running through his head and had grasped at and stroked at his hand, “But maybe it should be. Saying that I’ll stand by you whatever you should decide.”

“You might have to _defend_ me if I don’t go back,” he’d told her hollowly, before he’d revealed to her gloomily, “If _you’re_ thinking that then Mummy most certainly must be.” It had struck her, in that moment, what Violet’s reaction would be if he decided to stay as a film and TV agent at such a critical time in the world. 

“Then I’ll do that,” she’d said. 

“I’ll ring them tomorrow in that case,” Mycroft had been prompt with her. “They can have a year from me and nothing more.” He’d rolled on to his side, but had, had his back to her.

She’d touched at his shoulder briefly, but had _known_ that he’d needed to think about the new situation that he’d found himself in. As much as she sensed that it would be for his _own_ personal greater good returning to government would _not_ be easy for him. She’d have to be there for him every step of the way and her stomach had felt knotted from the thought of the difficult months that would surely lie ahead.

*

Sherlock wasn’t sleeping. Mycroft wasn’t much either and so he’d agreed that when his brother couldn’t sleep that they could chat online together, partly to distract Sherlock and to allow _John,_ who had been working hard at the surgery, to get the little sleep that he had been able to and partly to distract _himself_ from what he had been doing-spending his days masked up and running a constant dialogue between all the government departments in the hope of keeping the cohesive strategy that had been worked out [by himself mostly] going. It was tough and mentally draining and what worried Mycroft the most was how _easily_ he’d slipped back into such work. He might have felt as if he’d become a little lazy in the intervening years, but he’d snapped back into place again soon enough. He’d felt anxious that since he had been caught in the maze of government life once more he’d never get out of it. It was making him be irritable at home. The dark side of his personality had come back through again as he’d reverted to old habits and even though F/N-who had insisted on living with him and had refused to stay away for her own safety-had _tried_ to do small things to make his life easier, such as applying lip balm to his lips every night because of the effect that his mask had, cooking, cleaning and running everything generally behind the scenes, he _hadn’t_ been kind to her, finding faults for everything that she’d done or that she _hadn’t_ done well enough in his opinion and had blamed her most of all for what he’d become once more, which had only made him bully her further.

A sound and a change in the light outside of his shut eyelids had made Mycroft’s running and almost _obsessive_ commentary inside his mind falter and his eyes open. Beside him, in bed, F/N had groaned. He’d ignored it when she’d turned her body more firmly away from him, as she’d held the pillow more tightly to her head, and had rolled away from his _own_ pillow and to where his laptop had been on the bedside cabinet, as its light had glared into the otherwise darkened room. 

A little notification on the open programme had told him that Sherlock had been online and waiting for his brother.

Mycroft had shot one look over his shoulder at where F/N had pulled the duvet more adamantly over her own. Something had flared up inside him. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her, “I’m taking this downstairs, so that you can get your beauty sleep, though goodness knows what you need it for.” It had seemed like the more he feared saying such things the more readily they’d come out of him and the more he’d hated himself for his personality in recent weeks the more he’d blamed her for it all, setting the spiral off further. She’d sat up almost immediately and given him a look that had been filled with incredulity, as much as it had been with _hurt. “What?”_ Mycroft had raised a brow and felt all the _more_ irritated with her. “Am I wrong? You’re home after all, whilst I have to work all day and get up in the middle of the night just to stay on top of things and to keep my brother sane, which is _your_ fault by the way”-

“And do you _really_ think that I wouldn’t _prefer_ to be working, Mycroft?” her voice had trembled a little. She’d held back during all the other jibes that he’d thrown her way during the past few weeks when lockdown had first begun, but had finally reached her _own_ breaking point. “That I wouldn’t prefer to be outside of this house-and yes I _know_ that it’s a nice one!” she’d predicted what he’d been about to say. “That I wouldn’t _prefer_ to know whether I’ll at _least_ have a job at the end of all this? Whilst everything I do at home? It’s for you by the way. No matter _how_ much you might blame me for what you’re currently going through I’m trying to make things _easier_ on you.”

Mycroft hadn’t seemed to hear her final few sentences. “An arts funding package is on its way. I’ve told you that.” 

“Yes, well, don’t strain yourself.” She’d held her pillow to her stomach and glared at him.

“What do you mean by _that?”_ His brow had furrowed.

“I _mean_ that I feel helpless enough as it is and _you’re_ not helping! I spend my days trying to figure out how I can make each one of yours easier, but still I get the same response. The same ingratitude and all the hostility and I’m getting _sick_ and tired of it”-

“Well, maybe I’d be less hostile if you hadn’t made me go back in the _first_ place”-

“I wish I hadn’t then maybe you’d still be the man I love or maybe you’d just be unhappy, but at least you wouldn’t be _lording_ it over me!” F/N had thrown the pillow on to the bed and had stood up. As she’d faced him Mycroft had fixed his eyes upon her and had appeared as if he hadn’t _known_ what she would do next. He’d felt afraid that she might not love him any more. “Its been as bad as when we were kids!” She’d thrown her hands in the air, before he’d been able to contemplate the issue further. “When you used to make me feel _worthless_ for wanting a career in the arts! Well I wanted one My, and I _still_ do! I want to be able to _act_ when this is all over, no matter _what_ happens between us…because that’s _all_ that I have.” Once more she’d felt that their relationship had been at a crossroads and the future of it had been uncertain in her mind. 

“Even if you couldn’t you’d find something else,” he’d been gruff as he’d told her such a thing, but she’d traced some of the doubt that had been more prominent at the _beginning_ of their romantic relationship and she’d known then that her words about them possibly splitting up had rattled him and had hoped that he’d wanted to say that, that’s not _all_ she’d had. She'd hated it when they argued.

“I don’t want to find anything else,” she’d murmured. She hadn’t been talking _solely_ about her job. She’d pressed her palms over her eyes and had bent forwards a little. 

Mycroft had faltered between going to where she’d been and staying where he was, but in the end he’d just watched her for a moment, before he’d told her, “You can’t consider that, but you _can_ contemplate the idea of us being over. Your priorities are interesting.” What she'd suggested had still stung and he hadn't wanted to see reason that quickly.

“You’ve _always_ been one of my top priorities.” She’d lifted her head to look at him a little hazily. “But I don’t know any more…perhaps us not being together would make you happy? Your mother too? I think ever since you went back to work she’s started to look at me differently. Maybe she’s wondering if you’ll stay in your old job this time? If most of the past few years, you and me being more intimate together, was just some part of a midlife crisis for you? Is that _all_ we’ve been this entire time My?”

“Or maybe Mummy’s disappointed that you’d let me _return_ to my old job?” he’d remarked instead of answering her question. “That you wouldn’t try and save me more from it if you think that the government can be so dreadful?” 

“There _is_ always that,” she’d sighed and seemed exhausted by his continued attrition towards her.

It had come almost as a _relief_ to them both when another insistent and noisy notification had popped up from Sherlock on Mycroft’s laptop. Mycroft had looked at it and had taken the laptop downstairs, placed it on the kitchen island and sat before it.

*

“How is F/N?” Sherlock had asked when his brother hadn’t paid much attention to his complaints of being bored at how long Mycroft had taken. _Indeed,_ Mycroft’s head had still been upstairs with his wife. He hadn’t felt so insecure about their relationship for a _very_ long time.

“Oh, you know,” he’d tried to put on a brave face, “She’s like a dog. As long as she has her exercise during lockdown then she’s all right.”

Such a statement _hadn’t_ convinced Sherlock, however. If Mycroft was troubled then it was usually one of two things: work or family with both Mummy and F/N being a substantial sub-topic underneath the category of ‘family.’ Eurus and he were probably _also_ there, Sherlock had concluded. Thankfully their father had tended to be _more_ laid back and untroubled by everything and so worried none of them all that much. Whilst Mycroft’s job was no doubt stressful at that time Sherlock hadn’t heard anything new to think that it would have caused such a sudden strain. “You haven’t had any arguments then?” He’d seen the line of his brother’s shoulders grow firmer. “Because apparently, and not that it takes much figuring out”- 

“Which is good for you,” Mycroft had interjected, but Sherlock hadn’t allowed him to let them get off track by allowing his brother to call him, ‘stupid’ again.

“This has been a stressful time for everybody, not _least_ for those in the creative industries and normal actresses don’t even have _you_ to deal with.” He’d watched as Mycroft had swallowed at that and how his eyes had risen towards the ceiling in a bit of a clue, before one of them had twitched unpleasantly and his mouth had hardened, as he’d looked back at his brother.

“I don’t know what you mean Sherlock.”

_“No?”_ Sherlock had questioned him.

“No, unless you mean that F/N has spoken to you?” Mycroft would have been disappointed if she had done and had looked away from him. 

“You won’t be splitting up,” Sherlock had replied steadily after he’d studied his brother for a moment. He'd been able to partially guess what had concerned him. 

“F/N seems to be quite keen on the idea.” Mycroft’s gaze had slowly returned to that of his brother. 

“Really? _Why_ do you think that might be?” 

Mycroft had shrugged and bowed his head. “All I know is how disenchanted I would feel if she's confided in you. We made a promise, you see, that we’d _always_ tell one another our problems and leave everyone else out of it. That things would be _easier_ that way.” 

“For the record she hasn’t said a word to me, but I'm sure that's not _strictly_ what you agreed to,” Sherlock had told him and when Mycroft had lifted his head once more he’d seen that there had been a bit of a gleam inside his brother’s eyes. “Did F/N _really_ promise to confide in you alone? Or is that what you merely _interpreted_ the conversation as stating?" Mycroft's brow had furrowed. It had happened so long ago by that point, and he'd spent so long believing one thing about it, that it had been _hard_ to remember the exact words that had been said. "It was simply obvious by her appearance," Sherlock had said, "That there was something wrong with her. The way that she smiled less, just like _you_ have been doing of late by the way, and by the fact that she’d _often_ find some excuse to leave soon after her and I started talking just like you and I are doing now. In any case, whatever you thought about it, I would have _hoped_ that you would have _learnt_ by now that keeping a problem to yourself or amongst a few of you in no way lessens its size? In fact it can seem _large_ without the beam of multiple perspectives on it.” 

“That might be the case for you Sherlock, but F/N and I”- Mycroft had stubbornly stuck to what he'd believed to be true for all that time.

_“Need_ other people and outlets just like anyone else does for a relationship to be healthy and successful,” Sherlock had tried to make him see sense and Mycroft had looked at him in surprise. “She’s afraid that her career is over, that she won’t have anything to go back to when this crisis is over. You _know_ how she’s always been about her age, afraid that once she hits a certain figure she’ll be considered too old to act?” Mycroft had nodded. “Well this is all that amplified. It’s all the scarier to her because, _unlike_ getting older, this is something that she never predicted would happen. On top of that she’s got _you_ back in government, which terrifies her”-

“I”-

“She put herself at risk before to get you out of there”-

“She _encouraged_ me to go back this time,” Mycroft had interrupted.

_“Precisely,_ and you have to understand what an effort it must have been for her to push everything that had happened previously aside and be all right with the thing, but you’re changing again and making all her worst fears come true. The Mycroft who _hadn’t_ shrugged off the years since his career change, since he’s been more relaxed and confident in his relationship with F/N, the Mycroft who generally _smiled_ more and who had less of a strain upon his shoulders, would have _wanted_ F/N to confide in anyone, whether he'd agreed to something different or not, just to ensure that the burden upon _her_ would have been lifted. He wouldn’t have _cared_ as long as F/N’s troubles had been able to flee all the more quickly and happiness had reigned again.”

“I would have _always_ preferred it if she'd come to me first”- 

“You’re being an idiot.” Sherlock had sounded disgusted with him and Mycroft had watched as his brother had wriggled closer to the screen. “You're _really_ going to persist with this? Until it gets to what point exactly? The one where you lose F/N? For a job that you don’t even _like?_ I thought that you _missed_ her the last time”-

“Be _quiet_ Sherlock!” Mycroft had been rattled by memories of being on his own before and Sherlock had looked at him with some satisfaction about his face.

“Go and speak to her then. All you need to do is understand one another and see what is really important. Don’t stop until you do.”

“But I still don't understand: If F/N has been so troubled during this time then _why_ didn’t she tell me a thing about it? To me or anyone else?" 

“She was doing it for you,” Sherlock had re-iterated the words that F/N had tried to tell Mycroft in the bedroom. As the eldest Holmes brother had remembered how she’d said that her focus had been on him for so much of the time because she’d wanted to make his life easier something had clicked into place. “She thought that by keeping quiet, by _not_ responding whenever you snapped at her or made her feel bad then it would help you through what she _knew_ was already going to be a tough time for you. She was sacrificing her _own_ happiness to maximize yours and make your life easier, but as you can more than likely guess there’s only _so_ long that you can do such a thing for. And why did she do it for you? She _loves_ you. That’s the easiest answer that I have ever given to anyone.”

“I need to go.”

“Yes, I thought that you probably would,” Sherlock had been grimly satisfied and had shut off the connection between them a moment later. 

For a moment Mycroft had just sat there in the dark by the kitchen island as he’d stared at the screen.

Then there had come the sound of something by the kitchen entranceway and Mycroft had jumped.

F/N had entered a little awkwardly, before she’d directed her gaze and her actions to making a milky drink instead of looking at him or acknowledging what he’d just spoken about.

He’d spun around on his stool and had just watched her. She’d still appeared exhausted and her eyes had been red. She’d cleared her throat a little and had brushed at her hair at his attention, but hadn’t said a _word_ to him about what had been happening between them. He’d thought that she’d merely been making a drink for herself, but she’d pulled two cups out and he’d watched as she’d gone through the motions, before he’d accepted his drink from her with silent astonishment about his face.

She’d cleared her throat again and had stared at his collarbone as she’d said; “You should go to bed soon. You’ll be tired tomorrow if you don’t.” She’d met his eyes briefly, seen that he’d heard her, nodded, fetched her own drink and made to leave the room with it.

_“F/N?”_ The air in the room had seemed to disappear, as he’d slipped off his stool and tried to prevent her from leaving. Slowly she’d turned around to him and had cupped her drink with both hands. Mycroft had _known_ that he hadn’t deserved it in that moment, but he hadn’t been able to help but ask, “You’ll wait for me until the rest of the year is done? You’ll stay here in this house? With me?” 

“Will the man I love be back then?” She’d looked at him tentatively, but challengingly, happy if he might _finally_ have realized how badly he’d been treating her, but not being a big enough fool to think that he wouldn't treat her in such a fashion again. 

“He’s here now.” Remorseful light had shone in Mycroft’s eyes, as he’d understood more fully that it wasn’t that she didn’t love him it was that she _couldn’t_ love him so easily when he displayed certain behaviour. He’d deposited his cup down on the kitchen island, gone across to her and had gently prised her cup from her protesting fingers as she’d gulped, swallowed a little and had made incomprehensible sounds. _“Shh.”_ Not being able to wait he’d placed the cup down on the floor some distance away. “He’s here.” He’d returned to her and had pulled her by her shoulders into his body. She’d gasped and had trembled and he’d once more lamented all the pain that he’d managed to inflict on her. “I’m sorry. I’ve done and said some unforgivable things.” He’d rubbed at her back. _“Please_ find it in yourself to forgive me, even with that being the case.” He’d tucked his face into the side of her neck. He’d closed his eyes as he’d breathed in her scent and had regretted every moment that he’d behaved in a pig-headed fashion towards her.

“I figured that you were doing it in order to survive,” she’d mumbled, as she’d run a hand across his hair and scalp a little fretfully. He’d looked at her and had blinked a little. “That the _only_ way that you would be able to get through this year was reverting to old habits, though I had _hoped_ at first that we might have found a better solution to this, but in any case you should know that as much as you blame me I _also_ hold myself responsible”-

He’d begun to shake his head fervently. “No, you shouldn’t.” 

She’d touched at his cheek and had forced a smile at him. “It was wrong of me to try and push you in that direction. I thought I was doing what was right, _protecting_ you in my own way, but that choice should have come from you. I thought I was doing what was best, but maybe...” 

“No.” He’d jostled at her arms a little, before she'd been able to say that maybe what she'd done all those years ago hadn't been the right course of action. “You were right before and I knew it then and I agreed with you. Just as you are right now. You should have talked to me, forced me to listen, made me _see_ what I couldn’t understand”-

“It’s very hard to do such a thing. You have to be willing to listen, to _hear,_ and you weren’t at that point,” she’d interrupted him with a wry smile. “But what Sherlock said was pretty spot on, so at least you’re aware of it now.” She’d looked off to the side.

_“But”-_ he’d drawn her gaze back to him with just the word-“We can’t rely on _him_ to point the obvious out and for the happiness of our relationship. If I am being stupid then you must tell me. I shouldn’t have to _tear_ you down to survive. And you don’t have to worry about your job. I’ll ensure that you can do what you want even if I have to film you _myself.”_ He’d been so grimly determined about the thing that amusement had spilled from her mouth like drops of water in _spite_ of her own misgivings about it all. He’d bridged the gap between them and had run a hand down the side of her face.

“You need to go to bed.” Still wary about him she’d stepped back. He’d realized then that it would take her a while to trust him. She’d put so much energy into trying to keep him happy. He needed to do the same with _her._

_“No.”_ He’d shaken his head and they’d locked eyes. “I need to be with you.”

“So, I’m not your mid-life crisis?” she’d quirked an eyebrow up at him. She’d realized that she’d more than likely overreacted earlier, but a part of her had still had to check. 

“You’re the best part of my life,” his voice had been hoarse with emotion. “One of the _only_ people that are worth fighting for.”

_“Everyone’s_ worth fighting for, My.” Their breaths had both shuddered inside of their chests as she’d traced a line down the side of his face. “Why do you think that I’m still here? I _know_ that you’re not that man really.”

“I _am_ that man, ruthless for myself now as well as my family it turns out, but can you put up with me anyway?” They’d come to the conclusion once before about what type of man he is and Mycroft hadn’t seen any point in her ignoring it _only_ so that she could be kind to him in that moment.

F/N had nodded. "I'm glad that you're fighting more for yourself now." Her eyes had quickly grown concerned, however, as she’d noticed the single tear that had leaked out of his own.

"This is _not_ what I wanted to come out of my own selfishness," he'd tried to explain. He'd always _hated_ hurting her.

"I know, but we're still learning." She'd tried to smile bravely at him.

Mycroft had waited for her to make the first move and had relinquished all control to her. She’d kissed him several times. His breath had tightened inside of his chest, before he’d responded with his hand firm upon her back as they’d pushed against one another and had finally re-united and re-instated every single vow that they’d ever made to each other, right there in the kitchen. 

It would take them a _long_ time to recover from what the pandemic had put them through, but it had been a step in the right direction.


	11. Coping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from the timeline of chapter 9 and a look at how F/N copes with the stress around her work.

For a soon to be orphan it had been perhaps rather _helpful_ that whenever F/N had fallen over or gotten injured as a child that she’d been independent and methodical enough to try and take care of it herself. In fact she’d avoided seeking an adult out [unless it had _both_ really hurt and been someone else’s fault] because when she had, had someone fussing over her-her father more than likely who had quite often _hummed_ as he’d done such a thing-it had made her realize more what had happened and that in _turn_ had made her cry and forced him to comfort and calm her down. 

It was obvious to her then, that before a premiere of a TV show that she was in or the reviews of one of her films started flooding in, to try and control her emotions through various methods. Sleeping and calming pills had been all the range for her.

Though, that time, as she’d awaited the first reviews of the film role that Mycroft had disapproved of her taking [the premiere had been that week and reviews would start to come out in time for the weekend] it had been all the _more_ difficult for her to remain calm. She’d worried that Mycroft was about to be proved right and what in turn that would say about her. Worried about _finally_ being caged in as a certain type of person and actress and that no more interesting roles would ever come her way. 

Mycroft had never worried about fussing over her. It would never have occurred to him to do anything _but_ that and quite often in fact _both_ Sherlock and he would be on hand to watch the first episode of a television show that she was in or to go and see the film that she’d starred in-she’d had to wear a bit of a disguise just in case she’d been recognized if they’d done that, though both brothers often had to help her, as they’d claimed that they would have recognized her anywhere-and they’d _both_ given her extensive reviews of the piece afterwards. In that particular instance, however, and _because_ Mycroft’s view had been, more than before, part of her anxiety about the entire thing, she’d felt it _best_ to try and keep him at a bit of a distance. It hadn’t worked.

One night he’d been there in her apartment, which she’d returned to after buying unhealthy snacks and wine and with the expected evening of either waiting for a phone call from her agent or with her laptop open and on, on the coffee table, her fingernails half-chewed to death as she’d refreshed every relevant website He’d been stood there, with his sleeves rolled up, going around with a bin bag and with yellow marigold gloves on. It had been quite a look on him.

_“My”-_ she’d breathed.

“Ah yes, hello my dear.” He’d frowned at the bag for life that she’d carried her purchases in and had bustled over to her. She’d almost asked _how_ he’d gotten in, before she’d remembered that he had a key. She’d gotten used to him _not_ using it, probably something about being a gentleman on their dates. That seemed to have expired that night, however. He’d prised the bag from her, tutted as he’d inspected its contents and had started to throw the junk food that she’d bought straight into the black bag.

_“My!”_ she’d been outraged. 

“You can still have a glass of the wine,” he’d told her tersely, “Since it’s not a _bad_ bottle,” he’d conceded, as he’d met her eyes. “But you don’t _need_ all of this.” He’d given the bin bag a little rustle and she’d frowned when he’d heard its contents and moved the opening of the bag in order to be able to see inside it better.

“Those are all my pills!” 

_“Precisely,”_ he’d been firm with her.

She’d shot him a bit of a look, before she’d gone to the bathroom to check whether he’d _really_ taken all of them. [He had, though knowing him he’d probably kept the odd one or two on him and would dish them out if she’d gone _beyond_ his ability to cope with her.]

She’d returned to the main living area of the apartment just as Mycroft had emitted a bit of a nervous hum as he’d drawn the bag together. It had reminded her painfully of her father. In Mycroft’s case he’d no doubt been nervous of interfering with her just in case it had affected their relationship rather than the fact that she might not calm down. “Why don’t you take a seat?” he’d said when he’d seen her. “I’ll just take this out and then we can have some of the wine.” Apparently he’d _also_ been apprehensive about the prospect of her temper not dying. 

“You’ll be lucky if I let you back in here, let _alone_ share some of the wine with you,” on guard she’d let him _know_ that her anger hadn’t been diminishing. 

He’d released a bit of a pleasant chuckle at that, which had been unexpected and had thrown her for a moment. “You’re forgetting that I know how this works,” he’d obviously been reassured by her comment. “Your anxiety flares up because you’re concerned about how other people will perceive you and what that will mean for your future. I come around, take away your pills and generally make sure that you’re taking care of yourself during this difficult time.” 

“It’s not the same right now,” she’d mumbled and he’d stopped his administrations with the bag to look at her. 

“Because we’re together?” He’d frowned. “I can tell Sherlock to come around and wait with us if that would help you”- 

_“No_ My,” she’d been a little bit exasperated with him, “You’ve been so against this role from the off it’s not like you can just swan in, take care of me and make everything better this time.”

“I’m hardly going to say, ‘I told you so.’” He’d seemed just as frustrated with her.

_‘Aren’t you?’_ had been the unspoken question that had travelled from her e/c eyes to his blue ones. “It wouldn’t be the _first_ time that you haven’t let things slide.” 

“If it makes your life easier then I _will_ in this instance.”

“What would _Sherlock_ say about that?” she’d joked for a moment, before she’d looked off to the side in a conflicted fashion. Would she _really_ be able to ignore the obvious thought that he’d be thinking if it ended up that he was proved right?

He’d sighed a little, as he’d read the predictable thoughts that she’d been having. “I won’t think any less of you, F/N.”

“Why? Because _everyone_ makes mistakes?” she’d been defensive with him and had only looked at him briefly, before she’d glanced away again.

“Don’t let us argue now.” He’d gone to her and had run a hand down her arm until it had twined around her wrist. She’d bitten on her lip and he’d felt slightly _pleased_ when she’d shivered from his touch. At least he was still able to get through to her body even though he hadn’t been able to get through to her _mind_ in that moment. “All I mean to say is that you’ve had bad reviews previously. You got through them, as you will if you should receive any this time. You worked again. Your career _continued._ What are you so worried about?”

“Being boxed in,” she’d confessed as she’d finally met his eyes.

“Being typecast?” She’d nodded. He’d sighed, as one of her more prominent worries had come to the fore again. “This might be the last time to show that I can do _more_ than just play a victim in a crime show or be an actress in a drama that portrays day-to-day life,” her voice had sounded wistful and he’d sensed some of the hope that had been there at the _beginning_ of her career. Hope that she would star in a big blockbuster or a TV series that would have worldwide success one day. 

He still hadn’t been able to stop himself from snorting, however. She’d worried that he’d thought her stupid and he _had_ done a little. “Both my brother and you are always searching for something more and trying to _be_ more, but don’t you think that there’s something wonderful about ordinary life too? _I_ certainly do.”

_“You_ do My?” She’d looked at him skeptically, as if she hadn’t been able to believe that the man who frequently called normal people, ‘goldfish,’ had been able to have such an idealistic idea. “But you’ve always seemed to look _down_ on most people?”

“That was when I thought that their kind of life would never be accessible to me. I used to _marvel_ that people who held such basic minds could have made lives that seemed to work so successfully for them when there seemed to be a level of _fakery_ to my own.”

“Are you saying-?” She’d scrunched her face up and he’d smiled. Had he been jealous of normal people?

“When you’ve been forced to become _more,”_ he’d looked at her gently, “Sometimes you’d give _anything_ to have what someone else might consider less, but to you might be the ultimate everything.”

“And what do _you_ consider to be the ultimate everything Mycroft Holmes?” She’d eyed him.

_“This,”_ he’d murmured without any hesitation, “You and me here. It hasn’t always been easy and it won’t be. Yet here we both are working in the industry that we love and we are here together. What is left of our families is _safe._ After all these years there can be _nothing_ that is more miraculous than that to me.” 

Her temper and fears had cooled, as she’d been able to see the wood for the trees once more. She’d reached to cradle his cheek. As they’d kissed and had gone on to leave the bin bag where it was in order to further their knowledge of one another’s bodies in F/N’s bedroom, F/N had suddenly realized that she had a _new_ way of coping with those more _alarming_ emotions at such a time and that Mycroft’s way of calming her had been so finessed that it had rather become a work of _art._


	12. For the Sake of Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support! :D
> 
> This chapter follows on from the last one. :3

F/N was missing Mycroft.

They’d barely _seen_ one another of late. He always seemed to have a financial meeting in order to get the best deal for a client or a networking event or _something_ that would involve him working late and unable to see her. Those were the kind of things that he _told_ her about anyway. That he had paperwork, or this or that, that he needed to do.

It wasn’t as if F/N hadn’t been busy _herself._ She had her _own_ meetings and after the lull at the beginning of the year and also partially due to her recent successful film [the one that Mycroft hadn’t approved of had, had good reviews after all and she had been singled out in some for having _'surprised'_ the viewer with her performance] she had, had more offers coming in and had been currently involved in a pilot of a comedy sketch show. She’d hoped that it would get picked up as a series and enable her to show yet _another_ side of her as an actress. [It would, but unfortunately she’d find the role that she’d played being re-cast, probably due to the fact that she hadn’t felt particularly upbeat or funny at the time of filming due to the relationship issues that she’d been going through.] 

She’d stopped trying to meet up with Mycroft as persistently as she had in the beginning. After she had been rejected time after time it had gotten to the point where she’d just retreated and told Mycroft [via text after yet _another_ rebuff] that he should be the one to call _her_ whenever he’d been free and that they’d try and work something out. His answer had been a plain and polite, _‘Of course,’_ as if such a thing had been obvious, but it _hadn’t_ been to her, not when they hadn’t seen one another for weeks and Mycroft hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about telling her what he had been up to. It hadn’t been that she’d had to know what was going on with him every second of every day, but it had been the fact that they hadn’t seemed to have very much to talk about, which had made her feel gloomy and introspective about how their relationship had been going.

She’d considered the idea that he might have been having an affair, but the prospect had quickly felt ludicrous to her. Mycroft wasn’t the sort of man who _seemed_ like he would have an affair after all. He was sweet and gentlemanly, surprised enough about _her_ interest in him and although he’d grown more confident about the fact F/N hadn’t felt that he was arrogant enough to be having an affair behind her back and to be the one who was instigating it. There was always the possibility that he had met someone, through work or otherwise, who he’d felt that he’d had a strong connection with, but she’d felt that he would have been so torn and guilty about the entire thing when they _had_ actually met up that it would have been _obvious_ to her and that he in turn would have confessed and then made his choice. On the contrary he’d been mostly attentive and gentle when they had met up, even if he _had_ been a little bit distracted sometimes, checking his phone even when it hadn’t gone off and not in the mood for anything beyond kissing and a few tender touches here and there. The lack of a want for physical intimacy _had_ concerned her, as they’d only just started to develop things in that area and already he seemed to have had his fill, but whenever he’d been with her she’d almost been able to convince herself, all the same, that he’d merely been busy and that his feelings for her had been as strong as they ever had been. As soon as he’d gone, however, it hadn’t taken all that long for the voice in her gut to pipe up again and to tell her that there was something not right about the entire thing. 

The last straw had come when she’d popped over to 221B after the last half-day of filming the pilot [there had been a wrap party, but her mind had been filled with _other_ issues and she’d snuck away from it] and Martha had come out of her flat with a questioning look upon her face and a frying pan in hand and said, “Oh, hello dear, I wasn’t expecting you today.” F/N had looked at her quizzically. “Mycroft came around earlier. He had a big smile upon his face. Should we be expecting wedding bells?” 

To say that F/N had been startled had been an _understatement,_ but she’d tried to react calmly. “Mycroft came _here?”_ Martha had nodded. F/N had frowned at the fact that he’d been to see his brother when, as far as she’d been concerned, he had still been busy. “Perhaps I should phone him?” she’d considered. “Or send him a text saying that I missed him here?” 

“Is everything all right?” Martha had picked up on her troubling mood.

“He really _did_ seem all right? Both when he arrived _and_ when he left? And nothing’s happened with Sherlock at all?” F/N had come out of her thought and she’d scrutinized Martha carefully.

“No, they both seem fine. Mycroft said that he was heading around to yours when he left, that’s why I wasn’t expecting you. I thought he might have had something _special_ planned.” Martha had looked cautiously hopeful about the thing and had raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“But he _knew_ I was working today…” F/N had mentioned that she had been in order to try and get some kind of reaction as he’d been very proud of her regarding the reviews [he had pushed her to increase her security a little bit though, which she had] and optimistic about the pilot, but it hadn’t worked and he’d barely responded at all.

“Maybe you best go then dear? I’m _sure_ that he’ll be all right. Maybe he _wanted_ you out of the place? He might be cooking for you, for tonight?” Again Martha had appeared to be positive about what would be the outcome of F/N’s fear.

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! You should come and see this! It’s hilarious!” Sherlock’s deep voice had boomed, as loud and as sudden as the noise caused by a dam breaking in a valley. A moment later he’d come part of the way downstairs as he’d carried his laptop. _“Ah.”_ His face had fallen a little when he’d seen that _F/N_ had been there. 

“What is it? What’s so funny?” F/N had inquired, her voice only a _little_ bit breathless due to the desperation that she’d felt.

He’d frowned and had looked as if he might take the laptop upstairs with him again, but she’d been up some of the stairs and had reached for the device in a _flash._

They’d begun to tussle over it and Martha had said nervously, “You better give it to her dear. I don’t want _either_ of you to fall.”

Sherlock had grown more serious at the comment and had finally let F/N see it by handing her the laptop. [He’d _known_ that his brother would kill him if anything had happened to F/N on _his_ watch.]

F/N had got the laptop steady in her hands, before she’d looked at the screen properly.

It had been an Instagram post by someone. F/N hadn’t looked at the main comment that had been on the side or those that had been underneath the main comment. Instead she’d just noticed the happy and slightly breathless group of people. Mycroft had been stood at the edge of them, in oddly casual clothes-a thin, loose knitted maroon jumper and red and black tracksuit bottoms that she’d seen him working out in before-a nervous, but on the whole upbeat smile upon his face and his thumb clutching on to one of the sleeves tentatively. She hadn’t _known_ then what those group of people were, but it had been _clear_ to her, in that moment, that Mycroft’s happiness had, had nothing to do with her.

She’d let out a bit of a gasp as if her worst thoughts and those that she hadn’t wanted to believe in had seemingly been confirmed in her mind and the laptop had toppled into Sherlock’s awaiting arms. He’d tried to say something to her, but she’d been down the stairs and out the door. Martha had also tried to grab F/N’s arm on the latter’s way out, but to no avail.

Not sure what to do with herself F/N had simply gone home.

She’d hoped that Mycroft had already left, that she’d be given more time just to _think_ about the situation, but when she’d let herself in it had been to hear that some sort of commotion had been going on in the bedroom. 

She’d taken a couple of steps towards it at the same time that a defensive and inquiring figure had emerged from its depths.

She hadn’t known who had been more shocked-herself or the woman who had her boyfriend’s eyes.

_“My?”_ F/N had struggled to process the fact that he’d worn make-up and her brown scarf that had swifts on over a bunch of female clothing that she hadn’t recognized-a plum jacket and starch skirt of the same colour, a dark blouse over his still flat chest with a heavy necklace that might have belonged to Violet at some point in time and dark brown heels, whilst his legs, that she’d so admired in the past, had been hidden in the black and opaque tights that he’d thrust them in. A dark blue eye shadow had made the light in his eyes flare around the room all the more, whilst he’d apparently been testing out an ice blue lipstick of hers, though she’d had a vague thought that the red would have looked better on him. A quick memory of how Mycroft had dismissed her attempts to dress up and play on the day that he’d told her how he’d had a change of heart about going into the acting industry had rushed through her mind, _especially_ when Mycroft had tugged at the very scarf that she’d worn on that day.

He’d looked breathless about her presence and had hobbled across to the bathroom-in the same shoes that he’d got her once for a premiere-before he’d promptly locked himself inside of it.

She’d swallowed and managed to jostle herself into action. “My?” She’d gone to stand outside the bathroom door. “We need to talk,” her words had overlapped with his soft curse.

“I-I’ll be out in a minute!” his voice had wavered, before she’d been able to hear water as it had gushed out of the tap.

She’d swallowed and hovered there. All kinds of thoughts had run through her head as she’d done such a thing and her frazzled and confused mind had tried to put the pieces of it together. The photographs with what she’d just seen. Had Mycroft, since he’d changed his career, found a _further_ side to himself? A side of him that he’d only been able to express with the people that she’d seen in the photograph? Is he a transvestite or transgender? Even gay? Is this something that he’s been dealing with his entire life? Had he ever been planning to tell her? The thoughts had swirled around her head. She’d remembered how affectionate he’d been with her and things hadn’t made sense all the more. Had he been that way out of guilt or does he _genuinely_ love her somewhere inside of him? Was he going to tell her that they are better off as friends and part of the dysfunctional family that they’d been previously? Or would their romantic relationship be able to _survive_ whatever had been happening?

There had come a sudden thud and curse from the bathroom and she’d felt worried. _“My?”_ she’d wanted to hang on to the nickname for as long as she’d been able to and until he’d told her not to use it again. “Is everything all right in there?”

“Mm, yes,” he’d said, but he hadn’t sounded certain.

“Might I come in then? Maybe I’ll be able to _help?”_ she’d suggested. 

“If you bring my clothes?” 

She’d gone off to the bedroom in order to retrieve them, but had swallowed and been a little bit uncertain, before she’d entered it.

There had only been minute signs of chaos in the room. Her make-up by the dressing table had been disturbed-the lipstick that Mycroft had used had threatened to roll off it completely-and Mycroft’s suit jacket had been a little bit rumpled on the back of the chair that had stood before it in a diagonal fashion, but the rest of Mycroft’s clothes had been put in a neat pile upon her bed.

She’d lifted the jacket up and for a moment had just stood there as she’d held it before her. It had a gold lining to it and she’d breathed in the scent that had been trapped there-soap over something more musty and traditional like old books and papers, slight smoke, whether from a cigarette or fire that had been lit at one time it had been hard to tell because of the faded smell and something more tangy that had partly been the scent he wore and uniquely him. It spoke of a restrained passion inside of him. She’d wondered if she’d ever be able to handle the jacket in such a way again. If she’d be _close_ enough to smell the scent that was his alone. She’d stepped a little nearer to it and had brought it to her chest for a moment, on the verge of tears. She’d swallowed back down her feelings, folded it, added it to the pile and had carried it all to the bathroom door. 

Nervous again she’d given a light rap to the door with her knuckles. “I’ve got them. Is it okay for me to-?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mycroft had sighed, as if he’d been done with the conversation that they were about to have, before they’d even begun it. 

She hadn’t waited any more and had gone in there. 

The bathroom had been _more_ chaotic. Mycroft had looked overly large in the middle of it and a bit of a clown with the make-up only half-washed off his face. The heels off, one had rested sideways by his feet, whilst the other had stood more neatly upright. He’d seemed to either be having problems with his skirt, which had been low upon his hips or with the tights, which he’d seemed to have pulled at if the creases in them had been anything to go by. His top-half had been free from any clothing and he’d left what he’d managed to pull off on top of the clothes basket, which had become wonky and looked like it might fall over at any moment. She’d wondered if it had previously done so and whether _that_ had been the source of his curse before.

“Give me my shirt.” He’d looked embarrassed and she’d wondered if the only way that he’d known how to get through it all had been to cover himself up as methodically as possible. She’d found the shirt in the pile and had handed it to him, as she’d tried not to glance at him all too much. She’d been self-conscious too, more about seeing him _topless_ than in women’s clothing. The last time she’d seen him like that had been when they’d fooled around in her bedroom. She’d made enough progress with him that he’d let her hands run beneath his shirt, before he’d taken it off completely. 

He’d practically snatched the shirt from her and had released a little sigh of gratitude once it had been loosely done up. “I apologize,” he’d seemed more at ease with her. Perhaps he’d caught her looking at the skirt, for he’d gone on, “I took it off, but the tights ripped and it was difficult for me to get them off. I thought I better put the skirt back on again in the meantime.”

“It’ll have to come off.” It had been _F/N’s_ turn to try and solve the puzzle of Mycroft’s clothing. 

When he’d seen her deposit the rest of his more usual attire aside he must have realized how serious she’d been and had murmured, “Are you sure?”

“Mm.” She’d crouched before him and had missed the way that Mycroft had pinkened at the act. She’d put her hands on either side of the skirt, had moved it and had felt it give a little, before she’d wriggled it back down again. Mycroft had grasped at the top of the tights a little nervously and F/N had blushed when she’d lifted her head up only to realize how _close_ she had been to the most intimate part of him. The beat of her heart had picked up inside of her chest.

“My dear”-

“Are you-?”

“Mm, yes,” he’d confirmed that he _had_ actually been wearing underwear-pants rather than boxers for a change-“But maybe I should take things from here?” the tone of his pitch had gone higher.

“If you couldn’t get them off before though-?” She’d peered inquisitively up at him. His Adam’s apple had bobbed a little nervously. 

“No, you’re right, please continue.” He’d waved a hand. “I’m sorry to have got you involved in all of this.” At that point she hadn’t known what all of it _was,_ but she’d just nodded, chewed her lip and had tried to work out how best to proceed from there. 

Without the skirt it had been easier to see where the tights had been ripped-a slash that had edged towards the inside of Mycroft’s thigh had been prominent-and she’d kept an eye on it as she’d carefully made to inch the tights down. Mycroft had assisted her a little and finally he’d been able to step out of them. She’d handed him his trousers and he’d turned around almost immediately as he’d put them on.

“Will you be OK now?” she’d asked. “I can go and make us a cup of tea if you want?” Her face hot she’d felt as if she’d needed to get out of there and put some distance between them. She’d felt like she had before they’d apparently revealed their feelings to one another-not sure if his _own_ had been as strong as hers in that moment and eager to protect herself. 

“That would be lovely F/N,” his voice had appeared to be battling for control. 

She’d gone diligently out of there and had closed the door enough so that his privacy would be preserved, but that she’d be able to hear if he needed her help with anything more. Her head had still spun from what she’d just witnessed and she’d touched at her forehead, run a hand through a bit of her hair and set about making the tea.

*

When he’d finally left the bathroom she’d been sat on the settee as she’d sipped thoughtfully at her drink. The spoon that she’d always kept inside her cup had tapped against its edge as she’d drunk and had made a noise that had jangled both of their nerves. She’d placed his tea on the coffee table. As he’d approached she’d noticed that he’d looked a little more composed and like the well organized and unfathomable man that she had gotten more _used_ to recognizing him as being. His face tight he’d appeared a little anxious, however, and she’d half-smiled at him in order to try and reassure him. He’d merely nodded and had perched at the other end of the settee. 

He’d sampled his tea for a few moments, enough for him to _realize_ that it had been done in the exact way that he liked it, before he’d questioned her, “I suppose you have some things that you’d like to ask me?”

She’d mulled over her _own_ drink for a moment. “I guess what I’m wondering is, is _this_ you? The man in the suit that I see before me? Or is that all an illusion? Do you identify _more_ with the person who you were transforming into, _before_ I came home? Have you dressed up as a woman in the past?”

“Only as a child, with you.” He’d flashed her a bit of the tender smile that he’d shown her so often in the past few weeks, before his chin had disappeared behind his cup again. It was the same smile that had made her want to nuzzle close and kiss him and it had very nearly _broken_ her in that moment. 

She’d swallowed profusely, before she’d said, “A-And are you a transvestite Mycroft? Or transgender? Or gay?”

“Heavens no.” He’d looked astonished and had looked at her properly for the first time during their conversation. He’d noticed that the cup had shaken ever so slightly in her hand and had placed both it and his own down on the coffee table, before he’d slid closer to her and had grasped at her hand. “My dear I-the _reason_ for me dressing up like that is because I, and I was hoping to keep it all as a nice surprise for you, but I’ve joined a theatre company.” She’d stared at him. Her eyes had widened and her lips had parted a little. “Mm, yes.” He’d nodded and had rubbed at the top of her hand encouragingly with one of his, whilst his other had supported her palm. She’d wriggled a bit as it had tickled. He’d smiled steadily at her and had looked more like his father than ever in that moment. “I’d felt an itch to do something like that for a while. As much as I enjoy my work now it still keeps me at a bit of a distance from the creative world that I’d always envisioned myself joining, you know?” She’d nodded, as she’d been able to understand such a thing. “So I did a bit of research,” he’d explained. “I went to a few sessions by different companies until I found the one that I was the most comfortable with…they’ve _really_ embraced me,” he’d sounded both stunned and enthusiastic about the fact.

“So-So _that_ was what that photo was about?” she’d sounded a little faint. “The one that I saw at Sherlock’s?”

He’d looked a little crestfallen. “He showed it to you?” 

“Not exactly,” she’d admitted, “I practically had to _wrestle_ it off him”-Mycroft’s eyes had darkened, but only for a mere moment and F/N hadn’t noticed-“I don’t think he _realized_ to begin with that I was there. _Martha_ was the one who he was going to show it to. It showed a group of you”-

“Yes, from our rehearsals,” he’d explained, “We’re putting on, _‘The Importance of Being Earnest’”-_

“Lady Bracknell,” F/N had whispered softly to herself. It had been one of Mycroft’s last ever roles, before he’d put the idea of pursuing a career in the arts on hold. She’d been taken with his performance. They _all_ had been. It was as if the role had been _made_ for him.

_“Precisely,”_ Mycroft had murmured, and his hand had skimmed across hers again. “It was one of the reasons why I was keen to go with that particular company. I only told Sherlock today. I wanted him to help keep the secret and was worried that, _despite_ my best efforts, you were beginning to feel neglected even though you’d become quieter about us meeting up and such”- 

“I _always_ worry when you’re quiet,” she’d interjected, “I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

“I’m the same with you.” He’d tucked a strand of hair methodically behind her ear, before he’d encased her hand with his once more. _“So,_ I thought that it might be best to let Sherlock into the loop, just in case you confided in him about your feelings and so that he didn’t worry that I was treating you poorly as a result.”

“I nearly told Martha, she probably thinks that something’s up now, but _only_ because I was worried,” she’d confessed to him, “I thought you didn’t _want_ to be with me any more.” She’d looked at him cautiously. She _still_ felt anxious that he might have had such a feeling.

“Of _course_ I want to be with you,” he’d been dismissive of her concern, “I was only keeping it a secret because I wanted to surprise you with a ticket. The snooping about today was _only_ because I was trying to finalize things for my costume and I-well it made me feel closer to you, being here and around your things and such. I’ve missed you as well. I realize that things have been keeping me from you.” He’d looked down and had blushed alarmingly. She’d let out a little breath and had tangled their fingers further together. “They let me take it with me-the costume-so I could make my decisions,” he’d tried to get them back on track even though F/N’s mind had been _far_ away from him dressing up at that point. “I’ll have to replace the tights now of course.” He’d frowned at such a thing and his sudden silence had made her attention return to him fully. She’d squeezed at his hand and he’d come back to the present. “I was trying to make it up to you whenever I saw you. You _will_ come to the performance won’t you?” he’d been suddenly anxious about the thing.

“Of _course_ I will,” she’d reassured him, and then, as her fears had been assuaged and she’d been able to take in the _full_ extent of what he’d revealed to her, she’d blurted out, “Oh My, I think it’s wonderful! I can’t _wait_ to see you perform that role once more!” She’d flung her arms around him and had given him a proud peck on the lips. 

“You do?” He’d looked a little startled, as she’d pulled away from him, but alert enough to check. His hand had tightened upon her waist, where it had landed when she’d hugged him.

“Mm.” She’d given his shoulders a little extra squeeze. “It’s exactly what you said. You’ll be more involved in things this way.” She’d been bright about the thought.

“And you don’t _mind_ about the clothes and the make-up? I was going to replace anything that had needed it and buy my _own_ once I’d checked that they were right for the part. I would have told you about it eventually.” He’d hung his head down shyly.

“It was a bit of a shock and a worry at first.” Suddenly she’d been a little tentative and he’d found her hand again, lifted it to his lips and had pecked at the back of it. He’d kept his eyes on her all the time.

“What is it my dear?”

“Could I-Could I wear some of _your_ clothes occasionally?” she’d asked him. “I-I think they’d make me feel closer to you sometimes and I _like_ feeling that way,” she’d tried to explain.

He’d gotten a smouldering look upon his face and she’d gulped a little as he’d taken his jacket off-and his torso and arms had flexed as he’d done such a thing-before he’d draped it around her shoulders. “How about that to start off with?” He’d been soft and gentle with her. 

Embraced by his scent she was then by him and they’d kissed one another lovingly on the settee as the sunlight had burst into the apartment from the window that had been behind them.

*

_Sometime in the future…_

Mycroft wasn’t sure which he’d been aware of first-the shift in the mattress that had announced that his partner was getting out of bed or the light, which had hit his closed eyelids. All he’d known was that, with his eyes still shut, he’d reached across with one bare arm, realized that it had been too late and had twisted around on to his back as he’d lifted his body up into more of a sitting position and had opened his eyes. 

F/N had bounced over to the wardrobe. She’d shot him a bit of a grin over her shoulder. “Morning sleepyhead,” she’d _always_ taken pleasure in the moments when she’d been up first.

“Good morning,” he’d responded, his voice a little ragged from sleep. It was rare that he’d been able to take the time to just _watch_ her like that without having to get up _himself,_ but he’d only gotten back from a work trip the night before and had the day off, so he’d made the most of things and had settled back against the pillows lazily. The white duvet had been half-over him.

The beginning of her Tuesday would be filled with a press junket and involve answering the same questions over and over again to different people. She had still been a little bit nervous about it, however, as she was as every release of a project that she was involved in had drawn near. She’d be discussing a courtroom thriller film that day where she’d been one of the key supporting cast members. As she’d felt like she’d need a bit of extra support her eyes had drifted over to the side of the wardrobe that she’d made space for some of his clothes in. As her hand had begun to follow suit she’d looked back at him, “May I?” she’d asked.

There had been a bit of an amused smile upon his face and his foot had twirled around as he’d made a consenting sound in his throat and had nodded.

He’d watched as she’d more confidently rifled through his things that had been present. Then as she’d paired a white blouse and some smart dark trousers with a waistcoat from his _own_ collection. She’d added the blue admiral jacket, which she owned over it and Mycroft had finally gotten out of bed in nothing but lightly-coloured pyjama bottoms. His hands had wrapped around her waist as she’d studied herself in the mirror and fussed with the collar of her blouse. She’d stilled as he’d snuck his hands underneath her jacket and had felt first the waistcoat, which he’d tugged at a little, before he’d delved even further and touched at her skin. To his pleasure she’d made a bit of a needy sound and had pushed back into him. His body had returned the gesture and she’d gasped.

“Good luck today.” He’d kissed at the base of her neck after his husky comment and had given her hips a bit of a squeeze. 

Then he’d let go of her and as he’d bounced towards the door and the bathroom he’d sent her a lingering look over his _own_ shoulder that had left her in no doubt of what that night [and possibly as soon as she was able to return] would entail.

“Great, I’m going to be horny all morning now,” she’d mumbled at the thought of Mycroft and her fooling around later on. She’d looked at herself in the mirror once more.

In the distance Mycroft had hummed and whistled wickedly to himself.


	13. Headcanons about them Performing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look at some of Mycroft and F/N's rituals when they and the other are performing in the main story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. :)

**Headcanons about F/N watching Mycroft at the theatre:**

· Looking forward to the play, although F/N will be more careful when she needs to be if he is feeling anxious about it all she finds it harder to cover up her excitement than _he_ does when their roles are reversed and will promote it on any social media accounts that she has.  
· She will either have Mycroft dressed in character or the official poster for the play as her wallpaper/screensaver on every device that she owns.  
· She might also put copies of behind the scenes photos that she’s collected through him or otherwise in a digital frame for him and gift it to him on the last night of the play.  
· Although Mycroft will be embarrassed about it she always tries to get a photo of them in front of the promotional poster outside the theatre wherever he is performing.  
· She always buys a programme in _spite_ of Mycroft telling her that he can just give her one. They also send one to Mycroft’s parents. Violet pretends _not_ to be pleased about it every time, but Edwin assures them that she’s got a special box and is actually very proud of him. She will have shown their neighbours and brought up the subject of her son’s acting with them numerous times. If Violet and Edwin are able to go and see the performance themselves then although you can guarantee that Mycroft will be more stressed out about it all Mummy Holmes will be twice as proud behind the scenes and F/N [though she doesn’t understand _why_ Violet cannot show her son that side of her, herself] will try and get this message across to Mycroft. He might be able to see it in his mother’s eyes in the standing ovation…  
· F/N will bring him flowers to celebrate or get something, which will help to ease his stress [if he is lucky enough to have a more formal dressing room.]  
· She is one of the first ones in her seat, having gone with him to the theatre and will idle around the lobby, whilst he goes to get ready. She makes friends with the workers in the lobby _despite_ Mycroft specifically telling her that she shouldn’t be speaking to anyone. [He doesn’t want anyone to flirt with her or take advantage of her, but staff at _all_ theatres will get to know her quite well whenever Mycroft’s performing and think her to be a very supportive partner.] If Sherlock and their friends will be watching on the same night then she will meet them in the lobby more often than not, unless they are running late of course.  
· As soon as the lights go down F/N gets nervous on Mycroft’s behalf.  
· She will have researched into the play beforehand if she is not familiar with it and refreshed her memory if she is. Quite often she will be on the edge of her seat, but she will _always_ pay attention right from the very beginning and will rarely eat or drink anything as she watches him.  
· Anticipation will build inside her and her heart will flip over every time that Mycroft’s on stage. She will watch him so seriously and be inwardly cheering him on so much that sometimes it will look like she is not enjoying the play when Mycroft glances her way and she might have to reassure him that she _did_ in fact enjoy it. She will try and not look at him for too long, however, because sometimes it is like he can _feel_ the intensity of her gaze on him and she doesn’t want to be a distraction, but her eyes will always flick to and from him to make sure that he is all right.  
· Sometimes she worries that he has forgotten a line, but most of the time he is just pausing and being dramatic, before going on to say the next part. If he _should_ forget a line though or perhaps not perform as well as he might like on a particular night, however, then she will always reassure him and give him practical advice from both her own experiences and that, which she’s heard from others. She hopes that it might be of use to him in the future. In the rehearsal period of the play she finds that he’s generally more outgoing. He will become more internally focused on performance nights and she encourages him to tell her his thoughts, so that she can be there in the best way for him.  
· When he makes the audience laugh or reflect on something then she is so proud of him, but if the audience start to drift or have their phones on then she will feel annoyed with them and if she hears anyone say anything unflattering about him then she will have to bite her lip very hard. If any reviews are negative then protectively she will try and keep them from him, but he will always know about them and outwardly pretend that they haven’t affected him and don’t affect him as much. She will rally around and do anything that she can to support him at those times, knowing that the reviews might have had an internal impact on him and as soon as she learns that he prefers to read reviews so that his art might grow she doesn’t try and cover them up any more and they discuss them far more openly with one another. Good reviews and overhearing positive comments about her partner will make her feel very proud and warm inside.  
· If he is romantically linked to anyone in the play or acting flirtatious then that will make her feel jealous, but Mycroft will often send her a look shortly afterward or a small signal that will quell her growing feelings. He might feel amused by the thing once the play is over and tease her about it, depending on what he thinks he will be able to get away with and they will quite often have sex that night.  
· Mostly she’ll begin to ease into the performance as it goes along and relax.  
· She will be first on her feet for a standing ovation and quite often, if she has gone to watch the play with Sherlock and their friends then they will noisily be the first ones to initiate it, which will make Mycroft blush. Afterwards he might pretend that he isn’t pleased with them, but everyone will be able to see otherwise.  
· F/N always tries to see his shows _twice_ during the run-once at the beginning and then near the end to see how it has developed. She will feel happy and proud at seeing how he has built on his character during that time.  
· She will also be pleased if, once they have left the theatre that night, they go outside to see that people are waiting there for his autograph. [Initially Mycroft might be a bit nervous, though not that much because he is always glowing post-performance, until he realizes that is what they are there for.] He’ll be humble and accept any compliments with grace, but she will be able to tell that he’s pleased about it and he’ll always have a little extra bounce in his step afterwards.  
· Sometimes she’ll be recognized at the same time when he is signing autographs and people are either in awe or find it sweet when they realize it is them, in which case she’ll have her photo taken with them or end up signing autographs or they will be given a wide berth because of the circumstances surrounding how their relationship was announced. Mycroft will either be supportive and graciously allow her to gatecrash his moment or scowl if the member of the public should have the worse reaction. If she had gone to see the play with Sherlock and their friends then they will also act as a protective barrier if the couple should get any negative responses, before some good-natured ribbing of Mycroft will commence. This will lift Mycroft’s mood and make his lip twitch. [Sherlock and their friends will already have made him smile with their hollering voicemail messages of support that had almost amounted to spam in their number.] 

**Headcanons about Mycroft watching F/N perform:**

**TV:**

· Mycroft will have snacks/notebook and anything else that he needs ready at least ten minutes beforehand.  
· If they are able to pause the show then he will ask any questions as they go along. If not then he will use the notebook to make reference of them and ask her at the end. He will also use the notebook to record any comment about F/N’s performance that he might have. Both F/N [and Sherlock if he’s around] get a bit annoyed about him pausing the show constantly. Similarly when the show is on Mycroft doesn’t like any one talking.  
· He is very proud and tries to be more outwardly so since they have been together [squeezing at her hand if her character should make a stirring speech or gets through a tough obstacle in their life and giving her the occasional peck on the cheek.] He finds it more and more difficult since they have been romantically involved to watch her going through a rough time and crying or getting emotional on-screen. Before he would merely have frowned and self-contained it, but now he finds that he is all the more moved by the thing and will sometimes pause it on the basis that he suddenly needs a comfort break or says that he’d find it a really good time to have a cup of tea. [He won’t do any of this of course if Sherlock is present.] If it’s just the two of them then F/N won’t openly confront the emotion that he is feeling, but will sit closer to him and hold his hand upon his return, being more affectionate with him and _sometimes,_ for a moment, he will rest his head on top of hers, before they will continue with the show. He is beginning to understand [through his own performances] and allow himself to be more open to the fact that although it might be hard for F/N to emotionally prepare for such scenes the reward and the feeling of satisfaction [if she pulls it off] is worth it and to not be scared of her having to work her way through such emotions.  
· He takes an instant dislike to anyone that her character might like romantically and will become more possessive of her. Those are the nights where sex is guaranteed, with Mycroft being the dominant one and biting being involved. He also tends to rate those particular episodes or series the lowest. If he had his way then she would be narrating more wholesome documentaries instead of doing any dramas where she might be romantically involved with anyone.  
· But generally he is very supportive of her and F/N will often hear him discussing the promotional clips and trailers with his parents, albeit via Edwin’s encouragement until Mycroft is relaxed enough to bridge the topic himself.  
· There will also be a phone call with his parents after the show has aired every week and Violet will have a box full of promotional images and interviews. She will show these to neighbours and talk about F/N constantly with them.  
· F/N will receive texts and calls of congratulations from Martha, Molly, John and Greg. [If Sherlock is not around to watch it with them then he will give her a phone review.] When Rosie is old enough then she will often draw F/N a good luck message no matter the medium of her performance. [She will get into the habit of doing this for Mycroft as well much to John’s chagrin!]  
· Mycroft also has the habit of recording her programmes so that he can go back and for and binge-watch the series as a whole once it is completed. He likes to notice things that he might not have done the first time around and re-live her performances. Sometimes he will insist on watching them early on a Sunday morning, which is quite often a day of rest for the pair of them. F/N will find the act an embarrassing, but sweet one.

**Film:**

· He is very excited whenever she has a new film, but is also mindful about the nerves that she might be feeling, so might not be as openly looking forward to it in front of her.  
· Instead there will be discussion with his parents and that will help him release some of his _own_ feelings about the film.  
· He also comes up with possible plans and scenarios just in case her security needs to be altered if the role should heighten her recognisability factor. [And does this no matter whether the role is for TV, film or theatre.]  
· If the film is advertised on the side of a bus or there are billboards promoting it then he will try and take a [sometimes hazy] photo or at the very least inform her about the thing. That will make her smile.  
· He generally lets her attend premieres alone. Sherlock and he used to sometimes go and join the crowd, however, in disguise or keep an eye on her through CCTV, which she used to turn her back on. She also made a point of not lingering long on the red carpet in order to try and evade them. Whilst it also wasn’t rare for people to find that the mobile phone signal had been temporarily blocked in that area and Mycroft still hates a phone going off during one of F/N’s performances. If he _does_ attend the premiere then he will be wearing a tailored suit and people will sometimes mistake _him_ for a film star.  
· Mostly, however, he will try and see the film as quickly as he is able to [aside from the premiere] with F/N and Sherlock.  
· En route if he is aware that a local cinema isn’t showing the film then although he doesn’t have any power to change the thing he might go in there and harass a poor staff member about it, which always embarrasses F/N and makes Sherlock roll his eyes, _despite_ the fact that Sherlock is just as keen for the film to have a wide audience and will often promote it on Twitter. [One of the _only_ reasons that he still uses his account for.]  
· The first time that Mycroft sees the film he will do mental notes and not eat anything as he is trying to put the building blocks of the film together. [It is rare that he will eat a massive amount, in any case, whatever medium he is watching F/N perform through and prefers to have a meal beforehand or afterwards.]  
· One time and before they got together he hired a cinema out for a private viewing with the Holmes family, as a birthday present for her.  
· He will quite often go and see the film again in its run and be able to compose a more thorough review for her that time, as he will see it alone and without the distraction of the other two. He will more than likely announce that he has been _after_ the fact, however, and then say such a thing casually so it will very much be a surprise for her.  
· Throughout the film he will often be remembering the behind the scenes detail that she has told him about and release odd chuckles to himself, which will get a seated neighbour looking at him strangely.  
· He will always watch the film until the end of the credits.  
· Whether she has done work in TV, film or theatre he is quick to get on top of the reviews that are released so that he can be ahead of how they might affect her. He used to try and keep negative ones from her, but has learnt that it is wiser to allow her a general overview of how her performance has been received, not _only_ in order to stop her wondering, but to allow her to work on her craft. He manages her carefully during this time, making sure that she gets enough rest and eats healthily. He likes to look after her, but also knows that it is best to allow her some space for self-reflection. He does, however, feel cross if he should hear anyone making a negative comment about her during her performances and, if F/N and Sherlock are present, then through their looks is quite often able to restrain himself [and if it occurs during a theatre production because he would hate to embarrass her and hold up the play] but is dangerous if alone and liable to, at the very least, mutter a sarcastic comment. He fears getting into a fight, but will give as good as he gets if the person he’d been directing his words to should hear him and a confrontation should then occur. If she has good reviews then he will be proud of her, but will not place _too_ much emphasis on it as he knows that, whatever the case, she is always doing her best and he doesn’t want her to be _too_ hung up on other people’s opinions. If he overhears some good feedback about her, however, then he will pass it on happily. 

**Theatre:**

· Sometimes he will have the poster of the show as the lockscreen on his phone, but will always make sure that he gets a photo of the poster outside of the theatre. F/N and he will have a photo taken in front of one together.  
· He won’t escort F/N to the theatre. He will be there on time, but will tend to arrive when doors have already opened and there are a few people there and so that he has less time for his _own_ anxiety to build up. He won’t talk to the staff any more than he has to.  
· He will check that his phone is off several times [a lot of people have been ringing them both to leave well-wishes] and fidget with the programme. [He buys it like F/N will do when he does a show.]  
· When F/N first appears he will scan her over with his eyes and make sure that nothing has upset her in their time apart. If there is a long gap before she is next on then he will do the same whenever that should happen.  
· He will soon become swept up in her performance and that of the other cast members, however. He will analyze their acting and the story, but, in his heart, will _always_ be rooting for F/N. He will have diligently researched the background of the play or reminded himself of it, but will have done it more secretly than she would have in the same scenario with him unless there is some particular reason that he _wants_ her to be aware of his knowledge or is feeling playful with her. [His lack of openness about this is also in order to try and _protect_ her if she is feeling nervous.]  
· He will be one of the first on his feet if there is a standing ovation.  
· He will hug and kiss her backstage and give her flowers that a member of his security detail might have purchased during the performance, whilst the others were guarding him. If she has a dressing room then she will keep them there for the duration of the show or take them home with her.  
· He will then depart and by the time that she gets home from changing, tidying up and signing autographs he will have a light supper and a bath all ready for her. He will make sure that she gets the earliest night that she is able to and hold her if she wants him to. He will reassure her if she is feeling insecure about her performance and get her ready for the next one, reminding her of the support that she will always have from family and friends. She will feel a lot more comfortable and raring to go by the next day.  
· If he is able to see her for a second time during her run then he will always be so proud of any changes that she has implemented in the meantime to lift her performance to the next level and if he notices any other things that she might have influenced.


	14. The Breakfast Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for your support! :D 
> 
> This is an AU and set apart from the main story, although there are some similarities, as you will see. 
> 
> A warning that there are some sexual references, innuendo and that this chapter also features sexual related workplace harassment/inappropriate touching. 
> 
> Happy holidays to you all!

The fact that it was less dark than it had been had broken into F/N’s conscious mind when there had been the shift of movement behind her and the feel of someone’s knee as it had momentarily tapped against the back of her own. She’d stirred and had blinked. She’d been aware of a kiss that had been planted on the side of her neck and of the person who had left it there as they’d reached over her in order to switch the alarm clock radio off. The bedside lamp, however, had gotten switched _on._ The rest of the darkness had been banished to one side. 

_“My,”_ she’d whispered, voice still full of sleep and already cold as the blankets had shifted around them, and, what had felt like, _freezing_ air had gotten through. It had been a crisp and cold December morning, just a couple of weeks away from Christmas. 

_“Shh.”_ He’d bent down and kissed at her neck, before he’d wriggled low and cradled her in his arms. He’d rubbed at her _own_ in an attempt to warm them up. It was then that she’d remembered that they’d been gloriously naked. She’d pushed back against him and had instinctively reached down. “We don’t have time.” He’d swatted her hand away. “You need to get going. Your breakfast show, remember?”

“Not even for _something?”_ she’d teased and rolled over so that she’d been straddling him. 

“Not even for something,” he’d confirmed. He’d pecked her on the nose. His skin had felt delicious against hers and she’d rocked against him gently. It had been the cause of a long, elongated groan from his mouth and he’d held her closer as the sound had shot through her body as well. They’d kissed once and then twice more, before he’d reluctantly released her. 

*

“I’ll hang around for a bit here, if you don’t mind,” he’d said huskily a little later on as she’d finished her breakfast in the kitchen and he’d had one of the newspapers that had been delivered stretched out on the coffee table in the adjoining living room. The TV had been on the news, but muted in the background and classical music with a Christmas theme had played softly from the kitchen radio. _‘We Three Kings of Orient Are,’_ had drifted out from it. Mycroft had flicked the page of his newspaper. “Then I’ll head in towards the end of your show.” They’d _both_ looked a lot more ready for the day by that point-Mycroft had worn a grey suit that had been paired with a white, open-necked shirt, even though in his role as political anchor he wouldn’t be on air until the evening, and F/N was in black jeans and a f/c top, as she’d be changing into her on-air outfit as soon as she got into work. 

She’d nodded, even though she’d heard the words before and it was becoming a common practice between them and something that they’d _both_ taken pleasure in getting used to. “You have your key?” It hadn’t exactly been a question, more like an additional part of their routine, but he’d nodded reassuringly. “Don’t forget your tea then.” She’d gone past the half-decorated Christmas tree-she’d been gradually adding more to it in between work and as and when she’d felt like it and Mycroft had kept joking that it _might_ be ready for Christmas Day-and across to where he’d been sat on the cream coloured settee. She’d pecked at his crumb-studded face.

“I won’t.” He’d picked the cup up as she’d retreated and had taken a huge, showy slurp from it, even though they’d _both_ known that it was cold by that point and that he’d only pour the rest of it down the sink once she’d left. “Have a good one, won’t you? Don’t let him get to you too much.”

She’d smiled knowingly at him and had then exited the house.

Mycroft had, had a text a second later that had made him get going a lot sooner than he’d planned to.

*

F/N might have been made hungry again as soon as she had been amongst the smell of bacon from someone’s breakfast burger in the office and made more awake _still_ by the office’s festive decorations and the Christmas pop ringtones that had gone off, but she’d been _stunned_ when she’d been briefed by her producer- _Mary_ -about what would be happening post-show. _Too_ stunned to concentrate on her hunger for all that long. She’d be taking the winner of the competition that they’d been running on the breakfast show that she co-hosted around the studio and letting them meet as many of the main correspondents that would be available as possible. The segment would be aired in the last breakfast show before Christmas, so that there would be plenty of time for it to be edited. The problem was that the competition winner had been none other than Violet Holmes, Mycroft’s mother and the woman that F/N hoped, if the fates allowed, would one day be her mother-in-law, even _though_ they’d never met at that time. As she’d made the coffee that she’d be drinking on air in the cup that had the breakfast show’s logo on it her producer had said something about how they’d have to be honest with their viewers about the relationship between Violet and Mycroft and reassure them that the competition had been conducted fairly, but F/N had, had bigger things to worry about. 

As soon as her coffee had been in hand she’d gotten away from Mary, but before she’d been able to even _think_ of getting in touch with Mycroft, she’d been whisked away for hair and make-up, as well as getting changed into the red, but demure dress-it was breakfast TV after all-that she’d be wearing on air that day. She’d also have on a silver snowflake necklace, which would no doubt match part of her co-host’s outfit and had paired it with a silver promise bracelet of her own, which Mycroft had given her and which would hopefully make up for the necklace in his eyes [she often tried to wear something that he’d gifted her on air, as it had been like a secret message between them and one that re-affirmed her feelings towards him in his eyes.] Once that had been taken care of she’d hurried into the closest lift. She’d been aware that Mycroft, from what he’d said, should still technically be at her place, but time had passed by that point and she’d _known_ that if he’d gotten wind of Violet’s win then he’d more than likely have shown up in his office and be trying to work out _how_ he could warn her about the thing. He would most likely want to talk to her in person, like she had with him, and be on edge in that moment.  
She’d crossed the quiet floor-due to the later airtime people would be arriving shortly, but not as early as Mycroft if what she had predicted had been true-and had entered Mycroft’s office silently. “Oh, thank God,” she’d noted when she’d witnessed him, as he’d studied his phone and paced. His office had a window on one side of it that had overlooked the floor. A lot of the time the blind would be drawn down over it, as it had been in that moment, but she’d witnessed him as he’d peeked out from behind it numerous times. Aside from one proud image of him at his desk, which had been splashed onto the wall at the command of bosses and which she’d _known_ that Mycroft himself hadn’t been particularly fond of, the logo of the show that he’d put out every weeknight- _‘Political Perspective with Mycroft Holmes’_ -and the occasional note of reminder to himself, the interior had focused on the subjects of his work with a few clippings of old interviews on a corkboard and had been furnished plainly. A diary had lain on the desk, alongside the computer and an in and out tray. F/N had been aware that drawers had been on one side beneath the desk because her leg had crashed into one, one day when they’d fooled around inside his office. [That was _another_ reason why Mycroft was likely to have the blind lowered.] A filing cabinet with a half-hearted piece of gold tinsel that had been curled up on top of it [courtesy of F/N, who had snuck in one day and put a large Christmas wreath sticker on the door of his office as well] had been on the other side of the desk. Whilst shelving [that had _used_ to house the piece of tinsel] had been full of political and journalism related books and a small television set. It had been quite dark inside the entire office and had smelt faintly of damp and the spicy cologne that Mycroft had worn that day. 

In spite of herself she’d almost gotten lost in the memory, before he’d said, “I sent you three texts, but was wondering what else I should do. I didn’t want to phone you because I wasn’t aware of how private it would be. You’ve found out?” He’d turned to face her. She’d noticed the slight flicker of distaste that had crossed his face when he’d seen the necklace. It had softened a little, however, when he’d seen the bracelet. 

“Yes, my producer Mary let me know as soon as I arrived,” she’d told him. She’d made to put her coffee down on the floor momentarily, but Mycroft had tutted, taken it from her and had settled it upon his desk on top of a coaster to protect the desk’s wood. 

“Mummy sent a message to Sherlock this morning about meeting up later on since she would be in town today. She sent _nothing_ of the sort to me”-he’d looked a little aggrieved about the thing, she’d noticed as he’d turned back to her-“But he let me know”-

“What am I meant to do? Just act natural?” she’d felt suddenly on edge about the thing and Mycroft’s brow had furrowed. “She’ll be _bound_ to ask about you, won’t she?”-

“Did you just _hear_ what I said? She prefers”-

“Should I take her to you if she does or act like you won’t be here yet?” She’d ignored the way that Mycroft had stuck to his belief that his mother was against him and that she favoured Sherlock and would be more likely to want to see _him_ that day. Instead, although of course she’d been nervous about the way that Violet would perceive her, she’d convinced herself of the positives of her _second_ suggestion. That way they would be able to get through that day _and_ be saved from the suddenness of everyone finding out about them, as Violet would be none the wiser. [They’d decided that as soon as their families had known, with the exception of Sherlock, Mycroft’s brother, who had discovered the truth about them already, then they’d go public and since Mycroft’s family was larger than her own it would be a big step for them.] With her suggestion, however, it would all just depend on how well F/N _herself_ would be able to play the thing.

“No,” Mycroft had frowned. “She’ll be annoyed if she wants to see me and can’t, so I’ll have to make myself available. Even _if_ I’m in a meeting,” he’d sounded gloomy about the prospect.

“But if I bring her to you then she’ll know, won’t she? About _us?”_ she’d tried to drive home the seriousness of the situation. She hadn’t been able to _believe_ that they’d be able to hide the reality of their relationship if Violet had seen them together. Mycroft had hinted that she was clever. 

“You know that I was going to mention the thing when I saw her at Christmas anyway,” Mycroft had shrugged. F/N’s expression had become more concerned. They’d discussed being honest about their relationship soon, it had been true, because they’d _known_ that they wouldn’t be able to keep it under wraps forever-they’d lasted almost a year by that point as it was-even if it _had_ meant an unwelcome invasion of their privacy for a short amount of time, but Mycroft had _always_ been quite stressed about things when they hadn’t gone to plan and so she hadn’t been able to understand _how_ he’d been able to be so calm when _that_ one had been unravelling. 

“You’re fine with it coming out sooner?” she’d checked with him. 

“I’ll have to be.” Again he’d shrugged. She’d looked a little taken aback by the act. His lips had twitched into a smile as he’d approached her. He’d held her hands loosely in between them as he’d told her, “As exciting as this has been at times I fear that I am frankly too old and cynical to keep quiet about this for much longer. I’ll convince myself that it’s a been a _dream_ if I do.” She’d touched at his face empathetically, but thought that he should mention less of the old. “I want people to _know_ that you’re off-limits, especially our little _friend._ I don’t like his attitude towards you. You _know_ that I don’t,” he’d spoken of F/N’s co-host bitterly. They’d kissed briefly and because she’d been under pressure to leave neither of them had noticed the way that F/N’s lipstick had smudged on the pair of them…

*

“Fun morning?” James Moriarty, who was F/N’s Irish co-host, had asked as she’d joined him behind the curved, white desk in the studio that they’d be presenting from. His breath had smelt of coffee. He’d worn a navy suit and a white shirt. The shirt had a rounded collar, which had softened the demeanour of the man who had been _known_ to playfully speak his mind during the nine months and more that they’d been doing the show together for. Prior to that he’d presented the show with Annie Hunter who had left the show to work on documentaries about subjects that she was passionate about. Moriarty’s one concession to the season had been a little more eyeliner and a dark tie that had white snowflakes upon it. He’d eyed the curves of F/N’s body, which the dress had highlighted, with appreciation and she’d tried to give him _both_ a quizzical and unimpressed glance in order to diffuse the stare that he’d given her, as a chiding assistant-usually F/N was a little earlier to the studio-had quickly come across to pin her mic on to her dress. “You’ve got a little”- he’d touched at his lips, as the assistant had walked away again. Their heels had tapped against the hardwood floor.

_“Oh!”_ It had been too late to get her make-up touched up, as it had been so close to the airtime by that point and so she’d settled for swiping her lips with her finger-her fingernails had been painted red that day-and hoping for the best. She’d flinched, however, when she’d felt foreign warmth all of a sudden and had been _revolted_ when she’d looked down to see that Moriarty’s hand had been upon her lap. He’d given it a little caress and she’d flicked the large appendage off of her. He’d laughed. “Just _what_ do you think you’re doing?” she’d hissed, as he’d leered at her. Her body had vibrated and she’d felt rather breathless at his nerve. An innocent expression had dropped over his features. 

“I’m allowed to touch you like this. You’re mine. I read it in the papers so it must be true.” 

“No I’m”- she’d stopped herself from commenting that she wasn’t his, lest she give the game away. The _last_ person that she had wanted to know about Mycroft and her, _especially_ before they were quite ready to say anything, had been the gossipy and manipulative James Moriarty. 

“You think that you’re his. Yeah, I know.” He’d looked up from the set of papers that had been in front of him and had stared at her. Her heart had jumped in her chest in _alarm_ at his dark expression and the fact that he’d somehow _known_ about Mycroft and her. _Although_ …he hadn’t specifically mentioned Mycroft. Had he just _guessed_ that she was in a relationship with a work colleague and was using bravado to try and find out more about it? Did she not have to _worry_ about him knowing everything? For it would be out by Mycroft's and her own will, before Moriarty would be able to figure it out and ruin anything? “I know _all_ about the pair of you.” His gaze had gone back to his papers at that point as if nothing had happened. “But you will be mine, _willingly_ before too long. I can’t _believe_ that you actually think that he’ll stay with you. He’ll hate the attention and retreat back into his little shell. Still, if that’s what you _want_ to happen then I’ll help you to speed things up a bit. After all, you’ll figure out that you’re meant to be with _me_ much more quickly that way.” 

“I”-

“Isn’t his mother coming to the studio today?” Moriarty had drawled as he’d absentmindedly applied his mic to his suit and she’d realized that he must have taken it _off_ after the first time it had been put on in order to say such things privately to her. “It’s the perfect time to start to be honest with people, wouldn’t you say?” He’d glanced at her slyly. 

F/N had paled as she’d stared at him. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said that he’d known _everything._ She’d wanted to bolt out of the studio and warn Mycroft that Moriarty might try and tell Violet about them, but it had been too late: they’d been on air by that point and F/N had _known_ then, that right in that moment, all over households across the UK, the lyrical, jazzy music that had made up their theme song would be playing. That blue threads would be dancing and twining together against a yellow and white background. That eventually they would form the words: _‘Mornings with Moriarty and F/N.’_ [Moriarty had _built_ his reputation on being called that, which was why it hadn’t been, _‘Mornings with_ James _and F/N.’ ]_ So, since she’d known all that and _instead_ of fleeing from the studio, she’d twisted her chair around properly and had taken a deep breath, _aware_ of Moriarty’s presence all the while. 

The scene had shifted and F/N had known that everyone had been looking at them. Behind their desk had been a fake London background. If they’d looked clearly then a viewer would be able to see the rectangular shape of a screen, which was used on a daily basis to communicate with the shows guests and contributors. Otherwise, and when the cover of it wasn’t slid back to reveal the screen, it had blended into the background seamlessly. Due to the season Christmas trees had been decorated with gold and silver instruments and had been partially visible behind their shoulders, though they had edged out of shot. 

“Good morning,” F/N had tried to say as naturally and as cheerfully as she’d possibly been able to, even _though_ her heart had been thudding like she’d just returned from a run and her fingers had fidgeted with her papers. Mycroft, who had been watching from the small TV inside his office had lowered his cup of tea-the cup had, had the logo of his show on it-and had frowned. He wasn’t the _best_ with people, but he’d _known_ enough about F/N to be aware that something was not right with her in that moment. She was spooked about something, and as he’d seen the smear of lipstick that had been just below her mouth and which she hadn’t noticed was still there, his guess was that Moriarty had been on to them. A nervous, tingling sensation had run through his hands. Violet Holmes, who had already been at the studio and watching from the floor in her long brown cardigan that had an image of a robin on both sides at the bottom and a chunky brown necklace, had pulled a similar expression. Better reading people than her son she had picked up, not _only_ that something had been amiss with F/N, but what it might have been more precisely than her son had done.

“Yes, top of the morning to you,” Moriarty had glanced up from his papers cheekily, whilst F/N had sipped at her coffee. “I’m James Moriarty, and, as usual, I’m here with F/N L/N.” He’d turned to her ever so slightly and had given her a bit of a grin. He’d _known_ that she’d be squirming about what he’d just said and it had amused him. “How are we doing this morning, F/N? Got all your Christmas shopping sorted?” F/N hadn’t _liked_ his attempt to make casual conversation with her, _especially_ after what he had just told her off-air, and had pulled a bit of a face. “She’s so last minute this one, but I’m sure that she’ll get me something nice eventually,” Moriarty had interpreted her look in a way that might make sense to their viewers. “Won’t you darling?” F/N had glared at him as he’d looked at her. “Now, now honey, no need to greet the day like that.” He’d playfully wagged a finger at her. 

“You’re right.” She’d popped out a breath and had looked into the camera. “I really should apologize to my mother for not being more organized,” she’d tried to keep calm, and _Mycroft,_ who had been made uncomfortable by the small showing of the chemistry that he’d _known_ had meant the breakfast show was getting its best ever ratings and had made people _hooked_ with watching the pair’s interaction week in and week out, had smiled at the way that she’d handled herself. 

“She’s so busy now that she’s doing breakfasts. She’s living her best life in London-with _me!”_ Moriarty had quickly gotten back in control. Mycroft had sensed that had been a warning to him-that even though F/N had been in a relationship with him, Moriarty was telling _him_ to back away and that the Irishman would have the victory in the end. That Moriarty _also_ wanted to keep the rumours about himself and F/N in the public domain for as long as he’d possibly been able to-even though it was _him_ who was fighting a losing battle. He must have known that deep down. Was it possible that like Sherlock, Moriarty wanted to be in control of the changes that happened in his life and _not_ be the one who was reacting to them? “It’s freezing this morning, isn’t it?” Moriarty had said in a more natural tone, which had drawn Mycroft away from his thought. “I had to do that”-his head had ducked a little as he’d snorted over what he’d been about to say-“You know that you have to just whip the duvet back some mornings because it’s cold and then you literally try and jump into your clothes as fast as you can?” F/N had nodded at that point, but she’d looked tense. “Well, I had to do that this morning, but it was so cold that I needed the bathroom and I had to do a little run”-

“Oh no!” F/N had gone along with things and had felt relieved that they’d seemed to be slipping into their more general pattern and away from talk of her personal life. 

“Yeah, a little run because it was so cold. I don’t know _why_ I’m telling you that though, because you were _there.”_ F/N had glanced at him sharply. She hadn’t _liked_ him being so bold by putting more meat on the rumours that there was something between them-him flirting with her was one thing, but that was another thing _entirely,_ especially when none of it had been true. She hadn’t _wanted_ him to reveal her relationship with Mycroft live on air either, but she’d suspected that he might not do such a thing because then it would put an end to the rumours between her and Moriarty, although Mycroft and her would no doubt have to be more strongly-worded about the fact that nothing had happened between Moriarty and her when they _hopefully_ revealed the truth _themselves_ about their relationship, which was frustrating-the way that Moriarty was inserting himself into their personal timeline-and be clear about the fact that she had never cheated on anyone. She was confident though that they could get through it if they maintained control of the thing. It wouldn’t have made _sense_ for Moriarty to disclose the truth to the public _himself,_ because that in turn would have impacted their viewing figures and Moriarty _lived_ for such things and the thrill of chasing them. “Don’t be shy. You know my heart would _break_ if I had to keep our love from the world any longer.” Moriarty had winked at the camera. F/N’s eyes, meanwhile, had widened from the near match to the sentence that her _actual_ lover had told her that morning, whilst Mycroft’s eyes had narrowed with suspicion from his place inside his office. He’d gotten up and had searched around the room until he’d located a small bug just behind the corkboard. He’d crushed it inside his hand and had looked back to the screen. Moriarty, who had definitely been on to them, had said, “We have such a packed show for you this morning, which is something that F/N can tell you I know a lot about.” F/N had looked unsettled at that and as if she’d been made nervous by the comment. Something had growled _deep_ within Mycroft at the way that the Irishman had made his partner feel with his sexually fuelled comment. “We’ll be going to the weather shortly to find out what the temperature _really_ is and why I had to do a little run this morning”-Moriarty had grinned-“We’ll also be getting in a report on some online Christmas scams that you need to be watching out for when you’re doing your Christmas shopping from our technology correspondent Sherlock Holmes, who has teamed up with our crime correspondent Molly Hooper, _and_ we’ll be hearing from the popular fiction author Martha Hudson about why her latest book is going to be revolutionary reading this festive season. First a look at what’s making the news this hour with Mike Stamford.” The camera had switched to a smaller studio and once Mike had gone through the news-reports that had come in overnight of a shooting in an European Christmas market where thankfully no one had been hurt, wildfires in California and entertainment news from the previous night’s Royal Variety Performance in the UK, F/N had felt nostalgic as she’d once covered it in her old role of entertainment correspondent-local news had been broadcast, before a return had been made to Moriarty and F/N. 

“Look who’s joined us!” Moriarty had gestured to the screen in between himself and F/N, which had, by that point, been filled with the good-natured face of a silver-haired man. “It’s Greg Lestrade with the sport! Now, there’s lots of exciting matches coming up with the football. What can you tell us about them?” Greg had agreed and gone over the key fixtures as well as the expected outcomes of each one. Whenever a match had looked like it might be close Moriarty had interjected excitedly and F/N, who was more of a morning run person than a footballer, had rolled her eyes automatically, before she’d chewed upon her lip because of the threat that her co-host had still hung over her. She’d tried to think of a way that she might be able to warn Mycroft about what was happening behind the scenes. She’d thought it likely that he would be watching, but it was possible that he wouldn’t have picked up on her behaviour. 

“Now we have Irene Adler giving us the weather,” F/N had jumped in, as soon as Greg had vanished from the screen, instead of waiting her usual beat because she’d been nervous and Moriarty had smiled at the fact. 

“Good morning Irene!” his voice had jarred over F/N’s.

Irene had appeared in front of a frosty looking background wearing a more risqué white dress than F/N and not looking cold at _all,_ in spite of the cool temperatures that were in the studio. “Good morning to you both! Did you go for dinner last night? Our viewers and I like to hear about what you’ve been up to”- 

“Now _that_ would be telling,” Moriarty had winked, as F/N had inwardly sighed about how Irene had tended to believe the rumours regarding Moriarty and her. 

“Oh, you _tease!_ The actual weather isn’t _half_ as exciting…”

“Oh no,” Moriarty had said once she’d concluded with the forecast, “It’s not getting any warmer, is it?”

“Looks like you’ll have to do your little run for a few mornings yet,” F/N had gotten her own back on him. Mycroft had felt a _different_ sense of unease inside of him. “We’ll have much more after this.” Mycroft wanted to think that F/N _liked_ to be with him, but what if the truth was that she was more compatible with Moriarty? What if the Irishman _actually_ had a point? 

They’d gone to their commercial break, _and,_ as they’d sometimes done, had disconnected their mics for a moment in order to be able to move and talk more freely.

F/N had stood up in order to leave the studio for a moment and get her phone. She’d needed to send Mycroft a message.

“Sit down.” She’d looked at Moriarty. “Sit _down_ or I’ll turn you into those shoes that you like so much. You don’t want to lose your job because of him, do you? I won't _hesitate_ to make you look incompetent if you leave the place now.” Grudgingly F/N had sat back down once more. In any case Moriarty had wasted so much time with his words that it would have been difficult to get to her phone, send Mycroft a message _and_ get back to the studio in time. 

Moriarty had chuckled at that and they’d re-applied their mics shortly before they’d returned to the air. They’d done another teaser about what had been to come and had added more specific times to those things, before they’d started to watch the report by the programmes technology correspondent Sherlock Holmes and the crime correspondent Molly Hooper. Sherlock and Molly had led the viewers through the online scams in a darkened room with a blurred out laptop in the background as the facts of each scam had come on screen and the Police and Crime Commissioner had also added his concerns in another segment. F/N had _barely_ been able to concentrate on any of it, however, as Moriarty, who had seen F/N’s gaze fix on Mycroft’s brother, Sherlock, as if he might be able to save her from her _own_ predicament, had shifted in his chair a little and placed his foot-they’d been close to facing one another at that point as they’d been half-turned towards the screen-on the rung of her chair. Sat low in his own he’d smiled casually at her, as if to tell her not to do anything stupid. A split screen had appeared with Molly on one side in a plum cardigan over a dark dress and Sherlock on the other in a purple shirt. Moriarty had risen a little in his seat and F/N had swallowed, as they’d been visible to the public again. 

“That Christmas Carol scam seems particularly grim,” Moriarty had commented, “Sweeping through your system like that, removing not _only_ financial details that you’ve inputted and giving it back to the scammers, but restoring your computer to its basic set-up. A _real_ scrooge.”

“Yes, if you saw it happening in real-time then you’d probably end up looking around, wouldn’t you? It would be as if someone was watching you. A very _Orwellian_ type of feeling,” F/N had added her own thoughts and made her move in _spite_ of the fact that she was still sat very close to Moriarty. 

A flicker of something had crossed Sherlock’s multi-coloured eyes. Anything that had to do with George Orwell had always been a way to warn the others [in the group of Mycroft, Sherlock and F/N] that something was up. He had not had to think for _long;_ before he’d realized what it had been that time. His head and shoulders were the only parts of his body that had been visible to the public. He’d reached down and had got his phone out of his trouser pocket. He’d glanced down for the briefest of moments in order to access the right screen, and _then,_ whilst he’d looked back up to the camera he’d typed: **Navigator knows. Strife needs exit.** He’d glanced down at his phone in order to send the message. Thankfully Molly had seemed to sense that he’d needed a moment and had been talking to F/N and Moriarty about how bad the scam was. 

Mycroft’s brow had creased as he’d read the text, partially because of what it had said, but _also_ because he’d seen the slash of lipstick that had been left on his _own_ lips at that point and had rubbed it off determinedly with one of his cuffs. He’d smiled a little when he’d caught sight of the mistletoe cufflinks that F/N had given him. His expression had turned stubborn, however, when he’d typed a response. **Can’t give exit. Navigator will reveal route.**

**Time is running out in any case.**

The line on Mycroft’s forehead had deepened. **Not yet it isn’t.** In his mind he’d thought, **‘No one can know before Mummy,’** and the intentions of Moriarty had been visible to him for the first time. He’d felt taken aback as if he’d been stood on the edge of a London Underground platform and the Tube had just gone by. With a little growl of frustration he’d deleted what he’d typed out. **Trust Strife and me. A new path has opened up. I will feel it out.**

**I trust Strife. Not you.**

**Very wise,** Mycroft had replied to him, before he’d stowed his phone away as he’d known that Sherlock would not answer and had gone to find his mother.

She’d been stood watching one of the screens that had been high up on the floor that F/N worked on when she wasn’t on air and as soon as he’d murmured to the assistant who had been with her that Violet was his mother, they’d been left alone. It had been a great perk to him in that moment.

“I was hoping to watch Sherlock’s report in peace,” she’d said by way of greeting.

“I’m sure you were, but you can more comfortably see him inside of my office. If you’re lucky then he’ll join us in person there shortly.”

“I was told that _F/N_ L/N would be showing me around.” She’d looked at her eldest son suspiciously. 

“As you can see”-he’d waved a hand at the screen-“She is presently occupied, but I’m sure she’ll be along to join us in due course.” Mycroft wasn’t about to take the chance of Moriarty telling his mother about his relationship, _before_ he and F/N had got the chance to. At least he’d known that Moriarty was busy in that moment, even _though_ he was a lot closer to F/N than he’d like him to be. When it had seemed like Violet wasn’t about to protest any further Mycroft had gone to tell the assistant where they would be and that F/N should join them there post-show. The assistant had nodded at that and Mycroft had led his mother away. 

Back in his office F/N had said on screen, “Molly, the Police and Crime Commissioner Tobias Merrison in Sherlock’s and your report sounded really worried. What _is_ it that is making the authorities be so concerned about this? Is it merely, as you have described, the devastating effects of the scam or-?” 

“The anxiety comes a lot, I think, from a fear of how innocently people might fall into some of these traps,” Molly had reported diligently, “As you heard there, there’s a _real_ worry that people who aren’t technologically minded”-

“Older people in particular”- F/N had tried to show that she’d been listening when the report had first been aired. 

“Right,” Molly had nodded at F/N’s words, “Might fall into these traps.”

“That’s why it’s important for _both_ technology organizations and the police to get the word out there,” Sherlock had added and F/N had turned her attention to him. The fact that he’d been quieter during the feedback of the report than he would normally have been had _not_ escaped her notice and she’d hoped that he’d gotten her message before and had been in contact with Mycroft on her behalf. Moriarty had also picked up on the thing and had watched Sherlock with interest. 

“Yes, Facebook, who have really come under flack in recent years for _not_ deleting messages that might be harmful to people, have really been pushing the campaign to get awareness out about these scams. Why do you think that is?” F/N had asked. 

“I think you half-answered that question _yourself,”_ Sherlock had told her with a reassuring smile on his face, before he’d gone on, “They want to make it seem like they are getting awareness out and taking a wider responsibility for the people who are using their platform and who might be affected by it or who _might,_ at the very least be able to pass the message on to the greater community.” Sherlock had looked at her meaningfully enough as he’d said such a thing that inwardly F/N had breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock had passed what had happened on to Mycroft, that had been clear to her. “It doesn’t take as long for them to do this as it would to trawl through all the content and to delete anything inappropriate. I think you might see them taking more campaigns like this on in the future, in a kind of fight back, if you will, against the people who say that they aren’t doing enough to combat the hate that can feature on that form of social media.” The message from Sherlock’s words had been murkier there. Were Sherlock and Mycroft working to combat Moriarty’s plan together or was Mycroft going it alone? It had been impossible to tell to her and Sherlock had only had the chance to give her a further supportive glance, before Moriarty had taken over and gone to the ad break. 

F/N had let out a bit of a breath, as she’d disconnected her mic [Moriarty had followed suit] turned to face the desk and felt a greater sense of relief than she had in the _previous_ commercial break. When Moriarty had chuckled, however, it had made all the hairs on the back of her neck rise in unison.

“You think you’re so clever. You all do. But who’s going to stop me from saying my bit when I see Violet later on today?” F/N hadn’t known _how_ he was aware that she was called that-had their producer simply _shared_ that information with him even though he wouldn’t be leading the piece with her or had he found out another way? Whatever the case it had reminded her never to underestimate her co-host and she’d once again felt apprehensive. 

“It’s important to be aware that, even if you have not been scammed, like we have just been discussing, Christmas is not a happy time for everyone and it’s vital to take care of your mental health,” F/N had said once they’d returned with her mic on once more. Her brain had felt like it could have done with a massage in that moment, but she’d forced herself to carry on with the show. “Our health correspondent John Watson has got a lot to say about this, as the subject is very close to his heart.” John had appeared on the screen behind them. “Now John, we know that you did a stint out in Afghanistan and that you struggled, upon your return, to fit back into society. Our viewers may not have gone through anything as traumatic as that, but they might _still_ be feeling depressed this Christmas. Is there anything you can say in order to help them?” She’d _also_ been keen to take on any advice that might have helped in that moment.

“Good morning F/N, good morning James”-Moriarty had been knocked out of joint at that, as John had been one of the few people aboard the show who _hadn’t_ indulged him with his nickname-“Yes, there are all kinds of reasons that people might not feel like they can get on board with the celebrations as much this year and it’s important for people to _know_ that no matter how they might be feeling it’s okay for them to have those kinds of emotions. It’s okay-to use a saying that a colleague of ours is fond of-to _not_ be okay.” F/N had _known_ that he’d been talking about Sherlock in that moment and it had calmed her down. She’d wondered if John had been keeping an eye on the show and if he’d suspected that something was wrong with her and that hearing words said by one of their youngest, but somehow-for all his drug taking and problems in the past-most put _together_ colleagues would help her. Sherlock, after all, wouldn’t have had _time_ to tell him anything, before his segment. _Would_ he? “There’s so much pressure for people to be upbeat around this time of year,” John had continued, as he’d looked earnest in his knitted jumper. “But I think it’s really important that people take a step back for a moment, breathe, look around and just take a minute for themselves.” F/N had tried to be aware of how she was inhaling and exhaling. “Whether that’s to appreciate the people who are around them, because I think it’s important to remind people _that,_ at the end of the day, the people that love them will _surely_ want what’s best for them and that they’ll always choose _that_ over having a nice Christmas, or taking some time for a bit of healthy exercise or participating for a moment in the more _normal_ routine that you have for yourself and whatever makes you happy, it’s important.” It had been weird. Even though he’d been talking about something _else,_ hearing those words had reassured F/N that her _own_ situation would turn out all right. 

“I feel that, as nice as that all sounds John, a lot of people who are watching and listening to this will be thinking that they just _don’t_ have time for that?” Moriarty had played devil’s advocate and had tried to crumple up F/N’s mood once more. 

“That’s because of the pressure,” John had replied, as if he hadn’t been fazed about the thing, but F/N had seen that his jaw muscles had looked tight and had wished that she could have comforted _him_ in that moment just like it seemed he was trying to console _her._ “But, for those people and anyone _else_ who might want to take advantage of it, I’ve got something that might help.” She’d felt _sure_ that he’d been talking to her in that moment and saying that although the current crisis had been on top of them she could manage future ones a bit better with some planning. “Now, this is really easy”-he’d lifted up a red and white sheet, which had shown the calendar month of December-“So don’t worry that some of the dates have already passed. You can print one of them out or look at having multiple copies for each part of Christmas that you need to prepare for. It’ll be up on our website after the show.” Had Sherlock had enough time to explain the situation to John after all? Was this their way of telling her that she should carry on with things post-show as had been planned for her to? That she should meet Violet and take her around? That everyone _else_ would take care of Moriarty? Was there even something on the _actual_ website that she should be looking for? “If you’ll just notice I’ve put in some things that might be helpful, the last days to send in first and second class post in time for Christmas and what preparation you might like to do in terms of getting food ready for the big day.”

“And you’ve used this yourself John?” F/N had been rather distracted and so had only asked him a short question.

“I have yeah,” he’d replied.

“Did you find that it helped?”

“I did yes and hopefully with a little bit of organizing in advance it will make sure that people can have the most stress-free Christmas that is possible for them.”

John had wrapped up his report and F/N and Moriarty had moved on to their interview with Martha Hudson after the next ad break, which they’d been very silent during.

_“Martha!”_ Moriarty had said jovially, as soon as she’d appeared on screen wearing a hairband in the colours of a candy cane that had two red, circular flashing lights, which had bobbed like antennae on it. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“Thanks for having me back.”

“Of course darling, of course,” Moriarty had waved a hand dismissively. “Now, this book,” he’d looked amused, “Its been described by our arts correspondent Alicia as, _‘Fifty Shades of Grey,’_ for the elderly’”-

“Not exactly your _usual_ breakfast TV material?” Martha though had barely looked embarrassed by the thing.

“Yes, quite,” Moriarty had agreed with her. “I think our darling Alicia’s being a bit sniffy there, but what do you think? Would you say that’s a fair comment? A fair review? Or does it not really _grasp_ about what your book’s about here?” He’d tapped his pen against the desk three times.

_“Well,_ I think it’s certainly going to bring more readers to my book, so I’m not going to complain about it”-

“Very true,” Moriarty had chuckled.

“But all the same I think it _is_ a fair comment because it goes with what I wanted it to do, which was to try and overcome that rather stereotypical view of older people-and with reference to your _earlier_ topic dear, not _all_ of us older folk are technophobes”-

“That’s true, that’s true,” Moriarty had nodded and had managed to make himself look remorseful. Even _though_ it had been F/N who had said the actual comment that Martha had referred to the older woman seemed to have been annoyed that he’d made himself complicit in his silence. 

“Just like not all of us choose to give up sex once we hit a certain age. We might take longer to re-fuel in between, but we can keep on going _just_ as much as the pair of you can I’m sure”-

“I was going to say, actually,” Moriarty had interrupted with a cheerful loudness that had given F/N a bad feeling inside her bones, “That aside from the fact that your main characters are older, this _really_ could be a book about F/N and me, with all the showbiz references, you know?”

“I don’t think she was talking about us as an _unit,”_ F/N had hissed, just audibly enough to be heard.

“Everyone else is.” Moriarty had waved a hand and had argued back in a low tone. 

“What would you like our viewers to gain from reading your book, Martha?” F/N had taken over. 

“I’d hope that they’d be able to take some inspiration from it”-

“Some of it’s auto-biographical, hm?” Moriarty had teased. F/N had nearly put her head in her hands at that point.

“Bits of it are, yes,” Martha had said dryly in response to his question, “But I hope that it can show the potential for having fun at an older age and that you can get through challenges and have that capability for a good time still. That you don’t _have_ to give up on the life that you have left.”

“It’s about hope?” F/N had checked.

“Exactly, yes.”

“Well _I_ also feel more hopeful just from having you here this morning with us”- Moriarty had begun.

“Oh well”- Martha had bowed her head a little embarrassedly.

“Thanks for spending some time with us and have a good festive season darling. Be sure to come back to us in the New Year, won’t you?” 

“I’d be delighted.”

“Cheers darling.” Moriarty had swung back to face the desk. “Well, look at that. We seem to have come to the end of the show.” F/N’s heartbeat had quickened. “Join F/N and I tomorrow, _when,_ if you’re feeling a bit cold, we’ll be discussing some of the best options for everyone’s summer break next year. If you’re lucky then F/N might even show you her bikini.” Before F/N had been able to do _more_ than splutter in response they’d gone off-air. Moriarty had tidied up his papers and muttered out of the edge of his mouth, “Let’s go.” He’d already disconnected his microphone so she’d been the only one who had been able to hear him and had taken off hers with a bit of a tug. They’d left them with their papers upon the desk [an assistant would sort both things out] and had made their way to change. F/N had _hoped_ that if she’d done such a thing quickly enough then she would have lost him, but he’d finished sooner, waited for her and had then followed her back up to the floor where they both had offices alongside one another instead. 

It had been _disconcerting_ to feel his breath upon her hair and neck the entire time and her heart had beaten unevenly inside of her chest. She hadn’t had _time_ to think all that coherently, but she had a strong desire to see Mycroft and to make sure that everything was being taken care of, to do something _herself_ if it hadn’t been. Maybe she’d try and steer Violet in his direction sooner rather than later and try and keep her with him. They could use his office as a port of call for the other correspondents who were available to meet up with her that day, rather than just wandering around, as had been the plan. She could commandeer a cameraman at some point and make the footage happen. Argue with her producer, if she was against the thing, that no one would be able to accuse them of _not_ being honest about the relationship between Violet and Mycroft with regards to the legitimacy of the competition if they carried it out in that way. It would also make Mycroft look more human, which she hadn’t been against. She’d _known_ that some of the audience merely saw him as a fact-checking robot.

As soon as she’d stepped out on to the floor, however, Mary, their producer, who had managed to get back there, before them had derailed that plan when she’d looked up from a desk that she’d been leaning over as she’d assisted a colleague and had said, “Ah, James”-she didn’t call Moriarty by his surname either but he was more charming about the thing-“F/N, good show today. F/N, Violet is waiting for you in Mycroft’s office. Please go there immediately. I’ll give you half-an-hour to go through the details of the day with her and then I’ll send a cameraman across and you can begin to show her around.”

“I was wondering if I might use Mycroft’s office as a headquarters and get her to meet everyone there?” Mary had frowned at her at that point, as if she’d been disappointed in her. Moriarty had chuckled so that only _F/N_ had been able to hear. “I appreciate it might not be all that interesting visually,” F/N had attempted again, “But it _would_ solve the conflict that we discussed earlier and allow us to take advantage of the fact that she’s our competition winner.” Mary hadn’t said a word and that had encouraged F/N, as it had shown her that she’d been listening. “It would allow the audience to see Mycroft in a new light. It might increase viewers across the board.”

“I bet you’d _like_ that, wouldn’t you honey?” Moriarty had spoken, so softly that she’d been the only one to hear. “Being able to help your pretty boyfriend? Though if you love him I wouldn’t have thought that you’d _want_ more people looking at him.” 

“I’m not _like_ you,” F/N had muttered out of the corner of her mouth, though she’d been unnerved by the fact that Moriarty had obviously somehow _known_ about the way that Mycroft sometimes doubted her love for him. She wouldn’t let Moriarty derail her _own_ feelings, however. She’d _known_ how she’d felt about Mycroft for a very long time. She wasn’t going to waste time on being jealous. 

Mary had thought about the thing for a moment and then she’d nodded at her. F/N had swallowed in relief, gone to fetch her phone and a sheet of paper that had roughly listed the day’s schedule and then she’d made to leave the floor again.

When Moriarty had made to go after her Mary had called out his name. She’d sounded surprised that he’d made to follow her. F/N had felt more relief and hope fill her. Would that mean that Moriarty would _not_ be able to tail her, at least for the moment? Would she have a chance to _speak_ to Mycroft and Violet and share in a moment of revelation with them, before Moriarty could ruin it? Moriarty, however, had just called to Mary over his shoulder, “No, I need to meet with Violet now. Otherwise I won’t have a chance to later.” They’d quickly disappeared from Mary’s view, although their producer’s brow had remained furrowed. 

F/N had headed towards the lifts, before she’d quickly darted towards the stairs and had begun to run the two flights that she needed to in order to reach the floor where Mycroft’s office had been located. She’d heard Moriarty’s laugh, as it had echoed behind her, but had not heard him follow.

Her heart had raced as she’d made it to the floor at the same time that Moriarty had reached it from the lift that had been on the other side of the room and in the corner. They’d glanced at one another. Both their hair had been a little bit dishevelled by their movement. They’d taken a step forward and towards where Mycroft and Violet had been innocently talking with one another outside the window of Mycroft’s office.

At the commotion the mother and son had turned towards them. Mycroft’s brow had wrinkled and then smoothed again when the situation had become clear. He’d glanced at Violet and had then given a brief shake of his head when he’d looked back at F/N. His mother hadn’t known. He hadn’t yet told her. F/N’s heart had squeezed in panic and her body had twitched involuntarily, before it had stilled once more. 

Moriarty had raked his hair back and smiled in his most charming fashion as he’d approached Violet. “And you must be Violet?” He’d held out his hand to her. 

F/N, whose heart had thudded at the sight, had scurried forwards and had knocked his hand aside with her own, before Violet had been able to take it. “Mrs. Holmes- _Violet,”_ she’d corrected herself, as she’d still tried to make a good impression, “I’m F/N. I’m so pleased that you’re our competition winner. I’ll go through what you can expect from today, before a camera will join us. Is that all right with you?” Violet had nodded. They’d shaken hands and F/N had regretted that her _own_ had felt clammy. “Perhaps we can go back inside your son’s office?” she’d suggested, as she’d let go of Violet again. “It was so _nice_ for him to keep you entertained in my absence. Thank you Mycroft,” she’d spoken brightly and had looked at him as briefly as possible so she would not arouse any suspicion. 

“Not going to introduce me?” Moriarty had butted in pedantically.

“Of course-sorry.” Slightly flustered F/N had gone on to say, “Violet, I’d like you to meet my colleague James. You might _know_ that he hosts the breakfast show with me.” 

“Well, of course she’s just been watching,” Moriarty had chirped, “I doubt you miss a day of it, do you sweetheart?” He’d clasped her hand with both of his. 

“She _is_ a big fan,” Mycroft had revealed with an edge to his tone. 

“I’ll find something that I can sign for you later on then. Remind me, won’t you F/N?” 

“She's a fan of F/N, _not_ of you,” Mycroft had interrupted Moriarty sharply. 

Moriarty had wheezed in an injured fashion. It had been hard to tell whether he’d been in pain or had found the entire thing amusing, as he’d half-bent over, before he’d straightened up again and had looked as venomous as ever. “Would she still be such a fan if she knew the _truth?”_ Mycroft’s eyes had narrowed and done so further still when Moriarty’s arm had wrapped tightly around F/N’s waist. Moriarty’s eyes had _glittered,_ before they’d turned soft, sad and pleading, as he’d looked at Violet. F/N hadn’t been able to do anything but squeak helplessly. “Mrs. Holmes, you should look after your belongings, whilst you are here, and I regret to inform you in the company of your son because he has taken this one”-he’d nodded at F/N-“From me. Every day her affection is steadily transferred and I have been left in the lurch.” He’d swayed back as if he’d been in agony. “Not even deemed good enough for a polite introduction any more.”  
It had been Violet’s turn to laugh. The other three had looked at her peculiarly, Mycroft with a bit of a twisted smile upon his face. Was the ire that she often directed towards him going to be put to use against Moriarty? He’d been worried about F/N meeting his mother, after all she had always been quick to put him down and he hadn’t wanted her to have any negative feelings towards F/N, which was one of the reasons why they’d decided to navigate things as carefully as they had done.  
“Not the _usual_ reaction that I get.” Moriarty, who had let go of F/N, had looked a little insulted by Violet’s action. 

“Why? Does my son _usually_ take you seriously then?” Violet had barked at him. When they’d all looked a little nonplussed she’d added, “You three have obviously been in this place for _far_ too long, but if you think I entered with the idea that F/N and my son _weren’t_ in some sort of relationship with one another then you are very much mistaken young man.” 

“Mummy”-

“Mrs. Holmes, forgive me for not having introduced myself to you previously”- both F/N and Mycroft had been remorseful about how they’d handled things.

“You don’t _condone_ her cheating?” Moriarty had asked her incredulously.

Violet had looked him up and down haughtily. “F/N has no more belonged to you than I have to anyone but my children’s father.” Moriarty had opened his mouth at that point and F/N had begun to feel gratitude creep through her. She’d sometimes liked to _hope_ that Violet hadn’t been as bad as Mycroft had made her out to be and that had seemed to be the proof. “You realize how I’m _aware_ of such a thing?” Moriarty had shaken his head and looked the most wrong footed that F/N had ever seen him. “I watched her reaction to you this morning and that was _not_ the reaction of someone who felt guilty for what they had done to you or looked as if they’d ever been in a comfortable enough relationship with you. That was the reaction of someone who was _scared._ Of someone who thought that you were about to make their life very difficult indeed and now I can be sure _why.”_ Her gaze had cooled a little as she’d looked at F/N. “I don’t know _what_ he’s been telling you dear,” she’d nodded at her son, “But I am _not_ the kraken.” Mycroft had spluttered incoherently, but everyone had ignored him. “I would have accepted your relationship with my son as soon as I discovered that you made him happy and I realized that you did so long ago when his complaints suddenly stopped about you on the phone.” F/N had felt _hot_ at the reminder of her old rivalry with Mycroft and his snobbish attitude about her previous job as entertainment correspondent when her show used to be right before his and they’d had [often unpleasant] small chats with one another. The tension had finally started to break down between them when she’d called out a director for being blatantly sexist towards her live on air. Mycroft, who hadn’t been able to _pretend_ after that moment that he hadn’t been attracted to her, had been fearful that she hated older men or painted them all in the same light in her mind, before she’d plainly revealed that she hadn’t through kissing him fervently.  
“Why did you think I tried so hard to win the competition?”

_“Mummy!”_

“I’d long lost hope for an introduction by either of you”-F/N had blushed at their equal incompetence in that matter-“But I knew that the longer you kept everything quiet the more likely in trouble you’d be, as is evidenced by _this_ one.” She’d nodded at Moriarty and had looked at him. “So yes, I _have_ been watching every day and driving my husband mad when he frequently misplaced the phone number in the act of tidying up, but _not_ for the reason that _you’d_ like to think.” 

“If they are so committed to one another then why did Mycroft _not_ take the initiative and tell you about their relationship when he had you in his office and _before_ F/N and I showed up? He didn’t know that you knew. If you hadn’t been so astute all along then”- 

“He did so because he was scared and he always puts important things off. He’s been doing so his entire life and has always needed an extra push, even when cornered,” Violet had said at the same time that F/N had uttered, “He was terrified.” Both the men had looked between them. Violet had nodded at F/N to claim the moment and proceed forwards. F/N had moved and had touched at Mycroft’s cheek. He hadn’t been able to look at her, but she’d felt in her gut in that moment that he probably wouldn’t have ended up saying anything about their relationship at Christmas either or it would have been very quickly and as he’d gone out the door. _Too_ suddenly for Violet to respond. “I’m assuming that you did such a thing because you _still_ have your doubts about us on occasion?” They’d once _hoped_ that by telling everyone it would make it feel more real and that, that in turn would have made Mycroft believe in F/N’s feelings for him. “What about now? How do you feel?” she’d asked him. She’d been worried that they might have taken another misstep and it might have put stress upon their relationship rather than freeing it. That actually Mycroft had _not_ been ready. 

Mycroft’s eyes had skittered around her to Moriarty and then to his mother. F/N had stroked at his cheek to get him to look back at her. Once he had done so his eyes had softened slightly. “Good,” he’d murmured. “I feel good.” He’d felt better _still_ from admitting it and had exhaled. 

“I’m glad.” She’d felt emotional about the fact that he wasn’t trying to run away from her. Tears had shone in her eyes. 

Violet had looked satisfied, before she’d turned her gaze to Moriarty. “Are you still here? I thought you would have gone now that you’ve had your fun and gotten your answers. You nearly took advantage of their weaknesses, but it didn’t work.” She’d nodded at where Mycroft and F/N had still been very much absorbed with one another. Pink had shone on Mycroft’s face as F/N had looked adoringly into his eyes and had tried to get across how in love with him she had been. Moriarty had made a scoffing noise as he’d looked at them, before he’d made to slink away with his hands fisted inside of his pockets and his shoulders stooped. Before he’d been able to disappear into the lift again Violet had called out after him, “Oh, and if you ever try to touch Mycroft’s girl again then you’ll have _me_ to answer to.”

“I didn’t”- Moriarty had turned around innocently with his palms facing them.

“Oh yes, you did. I _know_ what a woman whose just been inappropriately touched looks like. I looked that way in the mirror once,” Violet had drawn herself up. They’d all been startled, as they’d looked at her. Mycroft had felt _both_ worried about his mother and F/N.

_“Mummy”-_

“I’m not saying anything more about that matter today Mycroft. All you need to know is that if F/N goes public with this one’s”-she’d gestured at Moriarty-“Behaviour, then I will support her.” 

Moriarty, who had been waiting for more information _himself,_ had clicked his tongue in frustration at the trap he’d found himself in, shrugged, met F/N’s eyes, which had caused Mycroft to move protectively in front of her and then turned around, before he’d vanished from view. 

“Mrs. Holmes,” F/N had turned to Violet enthusiastically, “I can’t thank you enough.” Her hand had been linked to Mycroft’s and his arm had been wrapped around her waist tightly. 

“You can stick to Violet dear and thank me by showing me around, as you were meant to,” Violet had waved off her thanks dryly, before she’d stepped aside in order to give them a moment. She’d hummed to cover up any awkwardness. It was something that Mycroft had done at times and it had made F/N smile.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft had asked, as soon as they’d turned towards one another. 

F/N had nodded. “I got through it.” She hadn’t seemed to _want_ to spend another second on Moriarty, and so, after observing her intently for a moment, he’d dropped the issue. [They would talk about it in time and Moriarty would choose to leave the breakfast show. His star faded, he’d never bother them again.]

“I don’t think we have to keep Mummy hostage inside of my office any longer,” Mycroft had commented instead. F/N had blushed at the fact that they’d _both_ had the same idea. 

“Yeah, I think we’re good there,” she’d admitted. 

_“And_ in other places as well,” Mycroft had allowed himself to smile, although he’d _still_ been a little concerned about what his mother had just revealed. F/N had looked at him. He’d nodded. He had more faith in them after the way that F/N had handled everything that day.

“Excellent,” she’d beamed and his heart had felt light from the sight. “I’ll see you later?” she’d checked as she’d pecked him on the cheek. It had felt strange to do such a thing so openly and when they hadn’t been concealed in one another’s homes or offices.

“You will,” Mycroft had confirmed.

“Though I _would_ like to get a little footage of you with Violet?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Mycroft had said with a spark of something in his eyes. 

Right on cue the cameraman had arrived and Mycroft had watched as F/N had become her work-self and gone to have a quick word with Violet, before they’d set up the shot. Later he would take pleasure from drinking wine with F/N as they deconstructed their day, but in that moment he was just happy to watch her and to know that, for the most part, he had no reason to fear her being around his mother any more. She was a Holmes from that moment on.


	15. Secrets in the Light & Canada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> Sorry for the delay. I had to pretty much finish this fic, before I updated again, so that I wouldn't have to go back and make any major changes to anything. I have made minor alterations on some of the previous chapters, but nothing major. The main thing just being to acknowledge the fact that Eurus didn't speak after the Sherrinford incident and how, in this fic at least, she is coaxed to speak again through Sherlock playing music with her. The good news with what I've done is that updates will be very frequent from now on until the end of this fic.
> 
> All the chapters will follow on from one another, with this one following on from chapter 13, as 14 was a different story altogether. 
> 
> I hope that makes sense and that your new year is going well. Thank you for your patience and I hope that you find this to be both interesting and enjoyable. 
> 
> There is some mentions of violence and there are scenes of a sexual nature inside this chapter.

_In the future…_

The lift door had slipped back and F/N’s eyes had gone directly to the three floor-to-ceiling glass panels that had been in front of her and which had separated the room in two. Signs on the glass had told her to maintain a distance of three feet. 

She’d stepped out away from the sanctuary of the lift.

Her eyes had shortly gone to the figure of the young woman who had been on the other side of the glass: _Eurus._

*

_In the present…_

At the end of a day in April Mycroft had gone to 221B because F/N had gotten suspicious. He’d _felt_ it in the way that she’d draped his coat over his shoulders that morning, pecked him on the cheek and _told_ him that she’d be making his favourite-sirloin steak marinated in honey-for dinner. _Felt_ that she’d started to become more concerned and worried about his welfare. He had been on edge for some time now about her rising star since the role that he hadn’t wanted her taking on had been successful. On edge too about the plan that he had concocted to try and deal with it all. He had not shared his feelings with her and instead had tried his best to smile indulgently whenever someone had stopped them in the street and asked for her autograph. At such times he’d tried to blend into the background and swept up in it all as she’d enjoyed her moment she had not, at first, seemed to notice his behaviour. All too soon, however, and as he’d predicted she had done. Due to that and the message on his phone that had seemed to _confirm_ his choice and his plan, he had to go around to 221B and make things change again. 

He’d felt the additional weight that had been stowed in the inside pocket of his jacket more prominently when Mrs. Hudson had opened the door to him and the drizzly day. He’d wondered vaguely what _she’d_ make about the announcement regarding Sherlock and F/N. Once upon a time he might have envisioned going to her _himself_ to ask her permission for F/N to marry him. As much as some of his fantasies had flourished, however, that one hadn’t seemed destined to. He’d forced a bit of a smile at her, but she’d tutted and had stepped aside. As he’d plodded on through he’d wondered if she’d ever let him sully so much as the doorstep after that day. Wondered if he’d even _want_ to go there. The idea of seeing F/N and Sherlock living the future that _he’d_ once hoped to have with her had made him feel as if he’d had a strong case of indigestion. 

Sherlock had noticed two things, one being the umbrella that Mycroft had been carrying and had not left downstairs and the other being the fact that one of Mycroft’s security men had entered the place as well, which wasn’t usual-normally they would speak alone and such people would wait outside. Mrs. Hudson had _also_ spotted such a thing and Mycroft had seen how her eyes had narrowed. In the present Mycroft had gripped on to his umbrella a little tighter and seen the flicker of fear and recognition that had hit Sherlock’s multi-coloured eyes, before his brother had risen and tried to cover up his no doubt frantic internal monologue with a snort. 

“Wait in there,” Mycroft had nodded at his man. A terse, but rather meaningful look had passed between them, but Sherlock had not been able to work out what it was about, before the blond, lithe man had stalked into the kitchen.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sherlock had called out after him, before he’d turned to his brother and had told him, “I take it that you’ve not found a new life for that as a prop in your latest production?” He’d nodded at the umbrella. That was the only thing that he’d been able to conclude-that Mycroft had gone back to his old job and he’d allowed his man into 221B because he had been _afraid_ of how Sherlock might react to the thing-he’d no doubt learnt from the time that Sherlock had slammed him into the wall and hadn’t been willing to take any more chances. 

“Indeed. I think that my theatre days are behind me.”

“A shame, but then you can't get much better than your Lady Bracknell. A wise decision to maybe quit, whilst you're ahead, but you do know that F/N will kill you for going back there, don’t you?” Sherlock had been quite conversational, but there had been something _uneasy_ about his tone. 

“It is for her that I am doing this for, and _you_ of course. Always you,” Mycroft had added generously. He’d twirled his umbrella as if it had been an old dancing partner. His hand had relished its easy accessibility in which to fidget with again. 

Sherlock had lowered his head and looked at Mycroft dubiously. Even if his brother _had_ been wrong about F/N, Mycroft had got the impression that Sherlock was contemplating killing him, _himself._ To try and placate him Mycroft had explained, as he’d fully intended to, what the situation was and what he felt the natural remedy would be. Sherlock had looked _more_ murderous if anything by the time that he had finished and had worked hard _not_ to attack Mycroft with the umbrella. 

“I understand now why you brought _him_ along.” He’d nodded at where the security guard had still lurked inside the kitchen. He’d been looking over where Sherlock’s experiment had been on the table imperviously. “If it was anyone else then maybe I’d wonder how on earth you could keep something as important as that from her.” Mycroft’s jaw had locked at his brother’s disappointment. “As it is _you,_ all I can ask is how you think she’ll ever go for this solution of yours?” Sherlock had looked at his brother maddeningly. “Beyond all reason and logic she loves you,” he’d reminded him. “It will _not_ be as simple just to instruct her and hope for the best.” 

“I assume that she’ll do it _because,_ in the end, she will be aware that it’s the right thing to do.” Truthfully Mycroft had wondered about what his brother had just brought up himself.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had only looked all the _more_ amused. “And since when has you pushing her ever resulted in anything more than her digging her heels in?” he’d questioned. Mycroft had looked a little disgruntled at the fact. “You’ll at least have to tell her _why_ you want her to do it, just like you’ve told me. I doubt that she’ll do it even at _that_ point, but she’ll _demand_ an explanation.”

“If Sherlock means for why you are carrying that thing again, then _yes,_ I will,” a sudden voice had come from the landing. Mycroft and Sherlock had both swiveled their heads. A moment later F/N had stepped into the room. Her gaze had been fixed upon Mycroft’s umbrella.

Mycroft’s heart had jumped at the darkness in her stare, but he’d understood, just as quickly as Sherlock, that she had not heard enough of the conversation for him to be _truly_ worried. He’d known too, however, that he had to act quickly and had told her, “I’m glad that you could join us, although I did not hear Mrs. Hudson let you in-?”

“I used my key,” she’d been cool with him. “And are you _really_ happy that I’m here?” 

_“Yes,”_ he’d replied curtly, as he’d beckoned her further into the room. “Sherlock and I were just discussing your situation and it will save some considerable time if you are here to get on the same page as well.”

“My… _situation?”_ F/N had strutted into the room with a false confidence, but her eyes had been narrowed as they’d fixed on Mycroft.

He’d gulped, before he’d joined her and had tried to run a soothing hand down her back. It had faltered when he’d spotted the fact that she’d been eyeing his umbrella as if he had a particularly aggressive ferret in his hand. “Mm,” he’d attempted to divert her attention, “You’ve been getting pretty popular of late.” 

“And you think that, _that’s_ a situation that needs to be managed with your brother?” She’d pulled away from him. 

“Maybe it does if you’re getting calls for auditions like the one you did this morning.” 

“You’ve been _spying_ on me?”

“Spying is such a strong term.” He’d frowned at her early dissent. “I’m merely trying to look out for your welfare, that’s all.” Sherlock had watched with an apprehensive sort of interest about him, as if the conversation was bacteria flourishing before him in an experiment that he’d conducted. Outside the rain had come down harder against the windows and casted the room in shadow. Over the noise Mycroft had added more boldly, “I’d like for you to do me a favour.”

“What would _that_ be?” F/N had seemed to suspect that she wouldn’t _like_ the suggestion.

Mycroft had taken a deep breath at that point and had momentarily closed his eyes as he’d done such a thing. He’d envisioned being with F/N at his place, before he’d crushed over his possible future with her when he’d opened his mouth and said, “I need you to turn down the audition, take this”- She’d watched, nerves turning into short-lived joy, as he’d pulled out a small, dark box from his inside jacket pocket. He’d looked at her too late to see what she had been mouthing, but had wished that he had known what it was-there were still so many things that he had wanted to know about her, wanted to _experience_ beside her. Then he’d watched her eyes take on a more questioning gaze, as she’d wondered if it had _truly_ contained a ring. It had _and_ because of the reason that she had imagined it for. It was even the one that Mycroft _himself_ would have wanted to give to her one day-if Sherlock was going to be the one who would get to marry her then he could at _least_ oblige to do so with a ring that Mycroft had picked out himself, an unakite jasper sterling silver pear engagement ring in this case, even though Mycroft had suspected that it would only serve to torture _himself_ further down the line. He’d pressed the box as gently as he’d been able to into her palm, even though it had been difficult for him to and had instantly made him want a drink. She’d accepted it-her fingers had wrapped around it with a tentative sort of hope inside them, but she’d looked at him falteringly. He’d cleared his throat and had stepped back. “I need you to take Sherlock’s hand.” 

_“W-What?”_ Surprise, anger and a feeling as if she’d just been kicked in the stomach had all flashed upon her face. She’d looked between the brothers and he’d sensed that part of her had hoped that it was a joke. That they were all going to break into smiles and a flurry of wedding planning. 

“I need you to”-

“I heard you the first time,” the hurt had been evident in her tone and Mycroft had flinched because of it. “The only reason that I’d take Sherlock’s hand-no offence Sherlock”- she’d shot the younger brother a glance, but he’d looked more satisfied by her reaction than offended and had bowed his head at her, which had encouraged her to rumble on, “Would be if he was walking me down the aisle, towards _you._ He’d keep our wedding rings safe. Safe until you’d be able to put mine on my finger. I’d be happy to keep it there for the rest of my life. I thought you _knew_ by now?”

Mycroft had been touched, but had struggled not to let it show. “You need”-

“No, _you_ need to give me an explanation. Why are you carrying that and what has that got to do with me marrying Sherlock? Have you gone back to your old job? And if so then I want to know _why?_ Why you’d do such a thing when we’d have every chance for happiness if you would”-

“If I would what? Stop doing anything I can to look after you? Don't be ridiculous,” he’d swatted her tirade away with a deft precision. He hadn’t sardonically added how he hadn’t _seen_ how that would have led to anything but ruin for them, but she’d got the message. “You need to take this more seriously.” She’d opened her mouth. “I am proud of you,” Mycroft had tried to remain patient and as separate as he’d been able to from the hurt that his actions would do to them both. Her eyes had flickered for a moment with hope at his words. “Of your work getting more attention, you know I am, but that attention comes at a price. Journalists might _already_ be looking into you because your star is bigger now and they’ll be more intrigued by you than ever before. That’s why it makes sense for you to take my brother’s hand,” he’d told her. “He’s been supporting you on social media for a while now and once it gets out that you’ve known one another from childhood- _well”-_ he’d given a hopeless kind of shrug. “The point is,” he’d continued after he’d blown out a bit of a breath-“As much as they will look into you, if you have Sherlock by your side, they might be a little _off_ -put to do so, so much. To them he is unpredictable, which means that they find him attractive, but _also_ that they're fully aware that Sherlock will likely have the upper hand in any _true_ encounters that they have with him”- 

“But _why?”_ F/N had blurted out. “Why do you think it _necessary_ for me to do this in the _first_ place?” She’d glanced around, before she’d looked back at him. “Is it-Is it because of the photographs? You’re ashamed? I thought that-?”

“No.” He’d shaken his head. She’d looked relieved about the thing. “If I was ashamed then I would hardly pass you on to my _brother,_ would I?” She’d _known_ that to be true. “Don’t you remember me telling you how proud I was and am of you a moment ago?” She’d nodded and had tried to get herself feeling calmer and her breathing more under control. _“No,_ that matter is handled and the remaining copy is safe.” Sherlock had looked pointedly away. Mycroft had bitten at his lip and studied F/N. Her cheeks had been a little red from her embarrassment. A little whisper had piped up inside his head and instead of the exact truth he’d gone with, “I just don’t want you to have to anticipate every question that you get from journalists and fret that they might be about your parents.”

F/N’s features had softened at that. For a moment a sort of mutual hope had flowed between them. _Hope_ from her angle that things might not have been as bad as she’d initially feared-though she _would_ have to talk to him about spying and interfering with her work because that was unacceptable-hope that it was about her parents and _only_ them and hope from his angle that he might be able to get them through it all with the use of a little deception. She’d surged towards him. Their fingertips had joined. Mycroft had felt a fluttering inside his heart.

“My”-her mouth had opened and shut a little as if her words had been sticky-“It would hurt of course if they brought up my parents and it’s a privilege to be inside your circle and someone that you care about, _but”-_

“You have to tell her the truth,” Sherlock’s voice had cut through. They’d both looked at him. “Or do you want her to find it out through the media? Because it _will_ come out. The truth always does. Wasn’t it _you_ that taught me that, brother dear?” At his brother’s hesitation and fish-like mouth opening and shutting, he’d forced his way in between them-a dismayed F/N had already started to pull away from Mycroft-and protectively covered F/N’s body with his. She was like a sister to Sherlock after all and it was in that moment that Mycroft had become all the _more_ convinced that his first instinct had been correct-aside from himself Sherlock would be the best at protecting F/N and putting her needs ahead of his own. “She’ll be gutted enough as it is, but I won’t just stand around and watch you give her false hope if you’re _actually_ going to do this, which I don’t think you should, but that’s _another_ story.”

“No, please,” far from begging Mycroft’s tone had been a chiding one, “Go on. I’m sure we’d be interested to hear what you have to say and what you’d do better.” 

“How can you even _ask_ me to marry him when you’re _this_ jealous?” F/N had been incredulous at the fact.

Mycroft had snorted and twirled his umbrella. Sherlock and he had looked at one another. Eventually Sherlock had turned his gaze to F/N. “His urge to protect you outweighs more _human_ emotions,” he’d told her disdainfully. 

_“But”-_ F/N had looked at Mycroft imploringly from around Sherlock and upon seeing her face Mycroft had, had to turn his own away. 

“I’m surprised that the two of you haven’t been linked together previously,” he’d gone on tonelessly, as he’d tried to further make her see why his plan should go ahead, “But like I’ve said, once the media have enough to do so they will lap it up like a babe at her mother’s breast I should imagine.” Sherlock had visibly squirmed in front of him at his words. Mycroft had smirked and had turned even colder. _“Still_ nervous about sex, brother mine? You’ll have to be gentle with him in that case.” He’d glanced at F/N.

“Why are you doing this?” Angry tears had run down her face as she’d shaken her head despairingly.

He’d quirked up an eyebrow and had faked surprise. “I’ve told you. Since, like my brother has said, the truth will come out you’ll be protected from the worst of it this way. Sherlock has overcome the poorest example of the media. He will be able to help you.” 

“I don’t mean that. I mean what _is_ the truth?” F/N had questioned, as she’d come to stand more confidently by the side of Sherlock. “Because it’s not”-she’d looked at the youngest Holmes-“It’s not _just_ about my parents deaths, is it? Because as much as it would _hurt_ to have all that dragged out in public I”- 

“It’s about how they died,” Sherlock had taken pity on her.

The skin on the back of F/N’s neck had crawled. _“How?”_ she’d been confused. “There was an accident- _wasn’t_ there?” Just like that she’d remembered portions of that day-being with the Holmes’s, her parents not being there, Edwin and Violet having some sort of hushed discussion, which had triggered the idea in her and the boys that something was going on. Edwin and Violet coming to see her-

Mycroft had shocked her out of her thoughts by grasping on to her waist and swinging her towards him impatiently. Her lips had parted and she’d let out a bit of a breath at the fact that they’d been so suddenly close together. “Your parents didn’t die how you think they did. Mummy told the pair of us to keep an eye on you as much as she wanted me to observe Sherlock,” he’d informed her. Their reflections had swum in the other’s eyes.

“How _did_ they die then?” 

Mycroft’s grip on her had increased. “Sherlock only found out from me today. Mummy and I were worried that it would trigger the memory of Eurus. However, I-I was so curious about _why_ Mummy had been insistent about the thing without ever telling us the reason why, so I looked you up at work”-

“The work you’re now _back_ at?” F/N had been disapproving.

_“Yes,”_ Mycroft had been a little apprehensive. “I had a conversation with Mummy afterwards. She…persuaded me that it would, in actual fact, be best if I didn’t tell you like I had planned to”-

“I need to know the _reason_ Mycroft,” F/N had snapped and he’d flinched. She hadn’t had the _patience_ to discuss the complicated relationship that was between him and his mother in that moment. She’d just needed to know what he’d been aware of about her _own_ parents.

“Your mother”-

“Your mother killed your father, before she turned the gun on herself,” Sherlock had explained since Mycroft had taken far too long and he’d gotten impatient himself.

_“I-_ My mother-My mother did _that?”_

_“Sherlock,”_ Mycroft had hissed in aggravation, before he’d rushed to further support F/N’s waist when she’d become unsteady on her feet. The small box that had contained the ring inside it had dropped from her hand. Her eyes had been wide and she’d muttered senselessly to herself. Her tears hadn’t seemed to know whether to hold off or flow freely. “There, let’s get you sitting down,” he’d encouraged.

“She had to know,” Sherlock had murmured, in part to reassure himself. For he had not liked to see F/N distressed any more than his brother had done. He’d watched as Mycroft had guided her into the usual chair that the consulting detective sat on. He’d opened his mouth in horror however, _when,_ at the same time that Mycroft had let go of F/N and stepped aside, the security guard had moved swiftly into the room and shot a tranquilizer dart into F/N’s neck. 

*

The birds had sung before the darkness had come to an end and F/N had gurgled incoherently. She’d thought that she was in bed. That had been until her hands had felt a dampness as _well_ as a springiness wherever she had been nestled. 

She’d opened her eyes.

As she’d sat up, as well as the fact that she had a headache and a stiff neck she’d soon become aware that she had been in a small clearing, which had been surrounded by trees. The memorial to her parents had been to the side of her. Someone had been sat at the base of its spire and she’d felt confused. 

_“My?”_ she’d questioned.

“It’s me,” a male voice had come as if its owner had been trying to be brave. It had not been Mycroft’s. _Still,_ it had been recognizable to her and she’d tried to distinguish the shadowy figure more quickly. 

_“Dad?”_ She’d wondered how she could be seeing him in front of her. “Am I-?”

“No, sweetheart, you’re not dead.” He’d gotten off the memorial and had done so in his usual clumsy manner, which had made her smile. He’d extended his hand towards her and for a moment she’d wondered whether or not her hand would merely sink through if she’d grasped at his. “It’s fine.” He’d wriggled his fingers at her. She’d taken her father’s hand instinctively-it had felt as large as it had done when she’d been young, but had been distinctly colder that time-and he’d pulled her to her feet. Both emotional they’d embraced, but F/N hadn’t started to cry until she’d seen the thin, silvery scar that had been upon her father’s neck. She’d traced along it with a finger. “I’m fine,” he’d told her, but that had only set her off more. 

“Does it-?”

“No, not any more.” He’d pushed her gently back, grasped at her hands and had held them in between them. 

“I don’t understand,” she’d murmured thickly and had peered up at the memorial. “If Violet’s known for all this time then why did she insist on making this for the both of you?” She’d wiped her tears away. 

“I have my own thoughts on that,” he’d said as her gaze had returned to him, “But you’ll have to take that up with her.”

“I will, as soon as I go back,” she’d vowed, before her determination had come to a screeching halt as she’d fixed on one thing that had occurred to her. “I will be _able_ to go back, won’t I?”

“Yes.” With a small smile upon his face he’d shifted some of her hair away from her eyes and she’d turned her head away and had contemplated. 

“Why Dad?” She’d turned back to him suddenly, the main question that she had on her mind beginning to flow from her lips. “How could Mum _do_ that to you?” Behind his glasses her father’s eyes had flickered with something sad. “Was she ill?” 

“In a way,” he’d conceded, “But we all have many sides to us. It would be good if you could see your grandmother. She’ll be able to explain it to you some more”-

“But Grandma-Is _that_ why she left the country? I thought all this time that she thought herself too old or something to burden herself with me, but”-

“You need to speak to her.” He’d smoothed her cheek down with his hand. It had felt worn, but comforting. “Everything will make better sense to you, I think, once you’ve spoken to both Violet and Grandma.”

“Are there rules about what you can and can’t tell me?” Her father hadn’t said a word to that. “But presumably this is all happening inside my head,” F/N had gone on, “So if my subconscious doesn’t know the answer to all these things”-

“I’m so proud of you,” he’d interrupted her.

_“Dad,”_ she’d been frustrated with him, “You’re changing the subject.”

“So what if I am? Whether this is all in your head or not I never thought I’d get the _chance_ to have a conversation with you when you were this age. Forgive me if I want to make the most of it.” 

“What are you so proud of me for?” She hadn’t been able to help but smile.

“I hoped that you’d still be able to grow up well without us,” he’d confessed. “Of course there have been some unintended consequences of your mother and I passing, you being attracted to father figures for one”-F/N had felt both embarrassed _and_ a little uncertain as she’d thought of Mycroft again-“And I wasn’t always sure if Edwin was doing the right thing in picking out books with good mother figures when he read to you, but the more that time has gone along the more that I thought he was. You _need_ to have those examples in your life. I’m glad.” He’d been able to blow out a breath in whatever odd place in her mind they’d been in. “I didn’t _dare_ to hope that you’d find a dream after everything and be able to hold on to it, but you have and I’m proud of you. You haven’t let anything stop you,” he’d been triumphant and he’d expected her to be happy as well, but she’d looked troubled. “What is it?” he’d asked her. 

“We were meant to be a team,” she’d sniffed. Her father’s shoulders had drooped. Her eyes had darted to his quickly. “I know that maybe that was a little unrealistic, for me to think that it would always be that way. Mycroft’s private and so am I, after all, but I…” Her jaw had wobbled. 

“Is that _really_ what’s bothering you?”

A flash of pained annoyance as well as confusion had hit her eyes. She supposed-though she was still getting used to the idea-that her parents hadn’t been a team, not really, and so perhaps the idea of that hadn’t felt like a big one to him. 

“Come here.” He’d seemed to read her mind. She’d falteringly followed him to the side of the memorial where a small, weed-like plant had grown. “Have a pull at that,” he’d told her. 

“Dad-I”-

_“Trust_ me.” He’d shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I know what I’m talking about.” Her mouth had flapped open and shut for a moment, before she’d crouched in spite of herself. “Go on then.” Her father had nodded and knelt beside her. With a disparaging kind of tut she’d wrapped both her hands around the plant and had tugged. To her surprise it hadn’t come loose willingly and had seemed deeply rooted into the ground. She’d frowned at that. Her forehead had wrinkled. “You see? Not as easy as it looks, is it? But you need to stop being at the surface and get to the _root_ of the problem.”

_“Dad”-_ She’d let go at what she’d _thought_ had been her father’s little joke, stood and had shaken her limbs out. 

“I’m serious.” He’d remained where he was. “What does this little plant need to grow?”

“Rain and sunshine,” she’d mumbled, as she might have done as a teenager-years her father was no doubt grateful that he’d missed-and then she’d moved away a little in the _hope_ that she’d be able to think about it all more freely. 

Her father hadn’t been about to let her catch a break, however. “What does your relationship with Mycroft need?” 

“Rain and sunshine,” she’d grudgingly admitted as she’d turned back to him. Her forehead had still been creased. 

“So come on then.”

She’d re-joined him. That time, as her hands had pulled feebly at the plant, her father had encouraged her to say what she had been worried about out loud. 

“That we won’t be able to be a team anymore. That he kept something from me, that the _entire_ Holmes family did, even though I’d thought that we’d got to the point where we were being more open with one another, that I _knew_ the things that they wanted to be kept hidden.”

_“No,”_ her father had stated and she’d looked at him. Her cheeks had already been red from the exertion and she’d felt annoyed. Her father’s eyebrows had shot up with a fake innocence. “We _both_ know that you’ll forgive them in time, _and_ that, with a bit of work, Mycroft and you can become a team again and restore the trust between you.” She’d reddened further, as she’d suddenly wondered _how_ much of their relationship her father had been able to keep an eye on. “Keep pulling.” He’d smiled a little at her obvious embarrassment. She’d done so. The plant had shifted, but not given itself up to her. “Keep talking,” her father had insisted. 

She’d mulled over the entire conversation that she’d had with Mycroft and Sherlock. A couple of things had come to her, but she’d pushed them aside in favour of saying more angrily, “I’m annoyed that he could even _suggest_ that I marry Sherlock.” Her father had chuckled at that point, as if he’d known that, that hadn’t been the _real_ problem at hand, but he’d been amused by her ire all the same. She’d increased her grip on the plant and had pulled at it more firmly. “I’m furious and _scared_ about him going back to his job. Can’t he do what’s right for _himself,_ for a change?” The ground had begun to quake around the plant, but she’d been so in tune with her thought that she’d barely noticed. 

“You’re nearly there,” her father had encouraged and she’d grumbled absentmindedly at his words. 

“But more than _any_ of that,” she’d said savagely, before her voice had become more broken, “I’m wondering if Mycroft and I should ever have become a couple in the _first_ place?”

_“Why?”_ her father had pushed her. 

“Because of the way that he said that Violet had asked both Sherlock _and_ him to keep an eye on me. Did he naturally fall in love with me? Or was it love that was born out of pity? I don’t want that Dad. That’s the _last_ thing I want and if that’s true then I’d rather just be on my own in the future.” With a huff she’d pulled the plant free at last. The force of it had caused her to fall backwards. She’d dropped the plant in the process-unbeknownst to her it had fallen messily upon its original spot-and had hit her head upon the earth. 

As she’d blacked out she’d seen the plant as it had fastened itself back to the ground. She’d seen happy memories of Mycroft and her in the sun-playing and dressing up as children, finally acknowledging their feelings, on their first date as they’d had dinner at her place, them fooling around and feeling happy because the other one was. She’d seen sad ones of them too in the rain-when he’d taken on a different career, the uneasiness that he must have felt as her own star had risen and when he’d worried that they’d grown too different for them to be with one another. Both things had caused the plant to grow and to become something _far_ more tall and beautiful than it had been. A deep red flower had bloomed.

She’d heard her father’s tender words as the flower had bounced in the sunlight post-rain. “I remember Mycroft as a boy,” he’d told her, “Whether Violet’s words encouraged him to notice you sooner, _realize_ things that he might not have done until later, the point is that he _did_ notice them. The point is that he loves you. There can be no doubt in my mind about such a thing. I have seen the way that he looks at you, both then _and_ now. _Think_ about it,” he’d urged her to get rid of any hesitancy, “With all your heart and know it must terrify him.” She’d bitten down upon her lip-an action that had carried over to where her body had physically been in reality. “A boy, let alone a _man_ like Mycroft, with all the worries, yes some of which he puts on himself no doubt, about his family and yes I know you were included in that from early on, would not go to such lengths to look out for you just for the hell of it. Obligation, which we both know that he feels a lot of, would only take him so far. If we are going by that then obligation could have deemed his job to be done once you were an adult and in a different career from the rest of the family. Yet he remained loyal to you. He kept you inside the inner circle. He never let his duties towards any other member of his family get in the way. You could argue that he holds himself to a high standard. That once he’d made the decision that you were as important to him as a family member he decided to uphold that job well, but what he has done for you goes _beyond_ any standard that he has. It comes from a place more _pure_ than any contractual terms. So, I am telling you, as your father and as someone who has had _ample_ time to think about it, that this man loves you. That he would do anything for you and that he is showing such a thing right at this very moment.” F/N had stirred in reality. “You must remember what I am telling you. He did not fall in love with you out of pity. He did it through watching you and getting to know you. He did it because he kept finding something worthy and admirable about you. He became proud of you. He remains transfixed because he could not stop himself even if he tried and he would never even want to. I need you to _remember_ all of this”-

_“Dad,”_ in reality F/N had moaned such a thing at the same time that her father had said, _‘Because,’_ in her mind. Her father had been worried and she’d reached out her hand. She had not been able to see the flower any longer. All she’d wanted to do was to comfort her father. She’d desired such a thing so much that she’d forced her eyes open. Someone had been beside her in a moving vehicle. _“Dad?”_ It had been momentarily too dark for her to see anything clearly. Her eyes had adjusted and she’d been able to tell that the figure’s shoulders had been broader than that of her father’s. Her heart had skipped a beat in fear. 

_“No,_ it’s me, Mycroft,” his voice had been gentle and careful. Her heart had softened. A moment later her body had shivered a little as his cool hand had come through the gloom and touched at her forehead. A streetlight had momentarily illuminated the pair of them. 

“I thought I saw”- she’d tried to explain. 

“Shh. There’s no need for you to speak. We’ll be there shortly. We’ll be _properly_ on our way then. You should close your eyes.”

“But _where_ are we?”

_“Shh.”_ His hand had darted over her neck and collarbone, before it had settled on massaging the former.

_“Mm.”_ Her eyes had slipped shut. She’d angled her neck towards him more. His touch had felt good. 

“Everything will be all right,” he’d soothed and she’d slipped back under where her fantasies had surfaced and replaced the dream she’d had of her father. 

* 

When F/N had next awoken it was to find herself in an unfamiliar room, beneath a white duvet, which had deliberately evoked a crinkled style like that you might find in sand upon a beach. 

Disorientated, her throat had felt a little dry and as she’d pushed herself up into a sitting position she’d let out a little groan without being able to help it. She’d noticed that beyond the green and white cushions that had been placed towards the end of the bed there had been a TV, a small area to make tea in between the wardrobe and TV, the former of which had, had drawers beside it, whilst the wall behind the bed had been grey and patterned like slate in contrast to the rest of the walls, which had been white. There had been two of the same style lamps [both had been switched on] and they had jutted out from the wooden headboard. That had been all she’d seen, before the noise she’d made had attracted attention from an adjoining bathroom. She hadn’t had any _real_ clue of where she was and had felt panicked when she’d heard footsteps. She’d looked feverishly around for a moment and caught sight of two packed bags that had been left at the side of the small room, before she’d let out a small breath of relief at the sight of Mycroft. 

He must have been in the middle of washing his face for it had looked a little damp and he’d clutched a white towel in one hand. His eyes, which had looked dry and as if they hadn’t been rested for a very long time, had honed in on her and he’d stopped in order to be able to take her in properly. 

“How are you feeling?” He’d strode briskly across to her. His open-necked white shirt had rustled as he’d done such a thing. As he’d sat on the bed he’d had to move the cushions to make some room and had dumped the towel in between them, before he’d touched at her forehead with the back of his hand. 

“I’m not sure,” she’d answered truthfully, not knowing what to make of the reality about her parents or how she felt about him, before her eyes had glanced towards the window that she hadn’t been able to see anything else but night sky out of, the grey of which hadn’t been quite absorbed into the black. 

“Where are we?” She’d guessed that they were in a hotel, though where and for what purpose she hadn’t been sure. 

“Canada,” Mycroft had replied promptly.

_“Canada?”_ She’d sprung out of the bed and barrelled past the wooden bedside cabinet towards the window in spite of the protests from Mycroft, who had cautioned her to be careful and had followed her swiftly. His hands had hovered either side of her hips protectively. 

“Toronto to be more precise, but we’re a few miles from the centre and it’s too dark to see anything, so it’s not as interesting as it could be. I didn’t want anything that was _too_ far from the airport we arrived in.”

He had been right-she’d seen more of her _own_ reflection than the view-and she’d peered around at him to get an explanation for why they’d been there. In her shock she hadn’t realized how his hands had slipped around her waist _or_ how close they’d been. Nor had she seen the bruising, tight emotion that had played around his features for a moment, as he’d swallowed it all back down again by the time that she had looked at him. 

“I thought you might like the chance, with what you have just learnt, to re-connect to your grandmother. When you get back to England your godmother might _also_ be someone who you’d like to visit, hm?” he’d suggested, before he’d squeezed her a little. 

“When _I_ get back to England?” she’d picked up on that fact immediately. “Do you have to get back sooner?” 

He’d let go of her, cleared his throat and taken a reluctant couple of steps back. Her heart had sunk and her face had hardened all the more. “I’ll be returning in a few hours.” He hadn’t met her eyes as he’d spoken and she’d noticed too that his hands had stowed themselves away inside his pockets. He’d been trying to hide from her, but she’d seen the outline of the fists that had formed, as if he’d been steeling himself for something and the tense line of his shoulders. 

_“Well,”_ she’d shrugged in spite of her _true_ feelings and how she would have _really_ liked Mycroft and her to be able to have a break from their normal day-to-day distractions, so that they’d be able to speak with one another properly, “If you’re going back then so am I.” 

“No you’re not.” He’d looked at her sharply. “Do you think that we just took a jaunt out to Canada for the _fun_ of it?”

“I expect that we didn’t.” 

“Quite right.” He’d calmed himself. 

“How did we get here in the _first_ place?” she’d asked. “I’m assuming that you didn’t take me through the airport in the state that I was in?”

He’d looked nervous at that. “Just out of curiosity: how _much_ of that state do you remember?”

She’d chewed her lip and had studied him for a moment. “I remember hearing about your job”-she’d looked disapproving and he’d shifted his position-“My parents, what had _really_ happened. Not much after that.” She’d looked away, before her gaze had gone back to him. “I’m assuming that I fell unconscious? That the shock _or…”_

“You don’t remember anything more?” She’d shaken her head. _“Waking?”_ he’d questioned her.

“I remember seeing my dad, falling into other dreams…” She’d blushed a little and had bowed her head. “Not waking. _Why?”_ She’d looked at him. “What did I do or say?” 

“You only seemed to be a little disorientated. You mentioned your father. Nothing to worry about.” He’d been quick to calm her. “You were out like a light shortly afterward. I got you on a private plane and we came here.” She’d scowled at the reference to the privileges he got in his government job. “Don’t look at me like that,” he’d cautioned. 

“Was I asleep for a few hours?” she’d decided to move the subject on for the time being. 

“Yes, this is the first time that you’ve been properly conscious…” he’d trailed off awkwardly, _both_ because of how she’d fallen under in the first place and because he hadn’t wanted to upset her by carrying on mentioning her parents, even _though_ it had been clear that she hadn’t forgotten about the thing. 

“I’m kind of surprised that I’ve been out for that long.” She’d studied him and found it _hard_ to not return to the matter of things that might be linked to his job. “People faint if they find out stuff like that in films, don’t they?”-she’d gotten a little side-tracked and he’d smiled in spite of himself at the mention of their film viewing nights-“It doesn’t happen in real life. My neck’s a bit sore.” She’d touched at it. _“Why_ is that, Mycroft?” She’d begun to grow all the more suspicious. “What did you do to me?” 

His eyes had lingered on the spot in a troubled fashion for a moment, before they’d met with hers again. “I may have-I may have had my security dart you with a tranquilizer and keep you under for a while,” he’d confessed.

_“Dart_ me?” her words had echoed and she’d been shocked. Whatever she’d been expecting it _hadn’t_ been that.

“It was the head of security, it _wasn’t”-_

“Oh, well, I guess that’s okay then,” she’d said and he’d flinched. “If it was the _head_ of your security then I suppose it doesn’t matter that I was darted like I’m some kind of _animal.”_ She’d pushed past him and had moved to stand just beyond the other side of the bed. Her back had been turned to him. Her hands had trembled by her sides, before she’d cupped at her face to give them something to do. “Was it just to suppress my emotion or-?”

“I thought that either Sherlock or you would cause a scene. _Rightly_ it was you.” He’d lifted his palms up in a submissive fashion when she’d whirled around to face him. 

“Are you-Have you been afraid of me this entire time?” she’d thought of something that her conscious had not properly considered when she’d been with her dad and she’d felt _cold_ by the thought. 

“No, of course not,” his reply had been earnest. 

“Maybe you took me to Canada in _order_ to keep me away from you and your family?” She hadn’t believed him and her mind had run away with the fresh idea. “Maybe you think it would be better if I was”-

_“Don’t_ finish that sentence.” 

“Well, can you _blame_ me?” she’d asked.

_“No,”_ he’d mumbled. His eyes had looked uncertainly to the floor. “I wouldn’t-I’m _not_ going to lock you up like Eurus.” He’d met her eyes. “I _trust_ you with Eurus, with my family. Just because your mother had her… _own_ difficulties at times does not make you like her in every way or mean that, that was all that there was to her. _But”-_ he’d gone across to where she’d been close to tears with exhaustion from it all, taken her fingertips gingerly and led her until they’d both been sat on the bed-“You’ve been through a lot. You’ve learnt of a massive thing, something which will go on to effect your life and what you think of your parents for years to come, so you need to allow yourself some space by staying here. You need to re-connect with those who are important to you. You-You _also_ need to let things cool down back home a little.” On the verge of discovering _another_ secret her head had jerked up towards him. She’d been surprised to see that _his_ face had looked a little embarrassed. His eyes had been close to darting away from hers, his hand had clasped at her back rather absentmindedly and his cheeks had gone pink. “Sherlock’s been working hard on our behalf.” He’d forced himself to look at her more thoroughly.

“You don’t mean-?” she’d been _horrified_ that it might actually have been announced that she’d been dating [and would go on to marry] Sherlock. 

“No.” Mycroft had looked sheepish. 

_“Good.”_ He’d sensed from that one word alone that it would be unacceptable to her if Sherlock and he ever contemplated that particular course of action again. 

“He did put out a tweet though.” He’d rubbed at her back. Her eyes had narrowed. “Congratulating us on our-our marriage.” His hand had stopped moving as he’d waited for her response. 

“But we’re not-?”

“No-What kind of _monster_ do you think I am?” he’d been genuinely worried. “Aside from the sort that keeps their sister locked up?” he’d attempted to joke, even in bad taste, because part of him had been _too_ afraid to receive the answer to his question. 

“The sort that tries to force me into a marriage with their brother.” Mycroft had looked remorseful. “I _do_ know that it’s not as simple as that,” F/N had clarified, before she’d added, “About Eurus as well.” Locking people who had mental health issues up was an old-fashioned idea, but _not_ one that had been eradicated from society. There was _also_ the fact that Eurus had proved, not all that long ago, that she was still a danger. Even though keeping her contained took away her freedom F/N hadn’t been able to think of anything else, which would keep Eurus and everyone else safe at the same time and Mycroft seemed _certain_ that she’d be capable of harm again. One up side was that Eurus had more visitors and a better quality of life since everything that had happened. It wasn’t a _perfect_ situation by any means, but it _was_ better than it had been, she’d had to acknowledge. “You’ve been trying to protect me.” She’d brushed her hand against his hair. “But whilst we’re on the subject of Eurus and everything: don’t you think it’s a little bit hypocritical of your mother for being so hard on you about keeping Eurus a secret when all along _she’s_ been trying to cover up the truth about _my_ parents?” 

“This has been hard on her as well,” Mycroft had released a breath. “She puts up a good front, but I could _see_ the pain in her face when we first talked…” As much as they fought he hadn’t wanted F/N to think that it _hadn’t_ been difficult for his mother.

“And I can see the pain on _your_ face now, so what I don’t understand is how, even though I _know_ you're trying to protect me, you could have felt that this was the best option?" He'd looked at her. "They’ll be looking you up now, won't they? Now that they're _aware_ that Sherlock has a brother.… _why_ allow that to happen? You _hate_ any kind of attention that’s invasive. I know you do.”

“Because I didn't have a choice." She hadn't immediately understood. "If I just stood there, whilst they did it to you then I would never forgive myself. I had to at least _delay_ them from finding out about your parents.” Her face hadn’t been happy that he'd just been trying to protect her and had neglected _himself_ through doing so. His mind had whirred to try and find something in order to get her to cheer up and eventually he’d said, “Whilst I remember, and if it’s any consolation to you, then Sherlock wasn’t exactly happy about me having you darted either.”

“How would _that_ be any consolation to me?” F/N had asked him in a strangled voice that had been full of a sad kind of exasperation. Hadn’t he _realized_ how upsetting it was to witness him constantly putting himself in the line of fire for everyone else was? Done with it all she’d buried her head in her hands. 

Instinctively he’d shifted closer to her and had wrapped an arm around her shoulders. _“F/N”-_

_“No.”_ She’d lifted her head and had looked at him hazily. _“Why_ did you have to go back to that job? Don’t you see what it’s making you be like already? The private jet? The _dart?_ Who made that first contact by the way?” Mycroft had looked confused. “Was it the government who approached you or did _you_ approach them?”

“They’ve been wanting me back for a while, but it was a mutual decision.” Mycroft had suddenly looked downcast and surly. “In any case”-he’d forced himself to look back at her-“I did so for good reasons.” 

“ ‘Good reasons?’” She’d almost laughed in spite of herself. “It’s wrong that you think that you have to take stupid risks in order to protect your family. _Well,_ you don’t have to protect me.” She’d begun to shake her head. 

“Yes I do,” Mycroft had growled. “You’re one of the people who I _want_ to protect most of all.” He’d kissed her. 

“Not if it comes at the expense of you.” She’d pulled away. Her face had been wet with tears Mycroft had made to shush and kiss her again, but she’d stopped him. _“No,_ do you hear me?” her voice had risen a little. “I am _not_ being the reason that you destroy the little good that you have left inside of you. I don’t think that anyone _else_ would want you to do that for them either.”

“I’m going to be fine.”

“I’ll come back with you.” Her mind had been made up.

_“No.”_ At the quickness of his retort and at his sudden firm tone she’d sensed that he’d been frightened about something and had looked at him questioningly. Her heart had beaten unevenly inside of her chest. “I’ll be fine,” he’d said more calmly, “But you have to stay here.” He’d smoothed down her cheeks with his thumbs. They’d gotten wet from her tears in the process. 

_“Why?_ I can come back. I can speak to my grandmother another time and _still_ give my godmother a ring if it won’t be a good idea to see her right now because of all the media attention.”

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft had growled softly, “Think about what you were saying about me and goodness right now. Think of how I have _always_ protected my family, of which I would like you to officially be part of one day and then maybe you’ll realize that I can _not_ keep you internally bleeding right now just so that you can look after me. What kind of person would I be if I did such a thing?”

_“But”-_

“My dear.” He’d butted their foreheads together gently. 

She’d held on to his shoulder. “I’ll feel like I’m doing that to you if I”-

“Trust me when I say that for my _own_ peace of mind, as well as yours, things will be better this way. I’ll relax _more_ if I know that you’re here and healing rather than in the centre of the storm with me.”

“There’s no place I’d rather be.” He’d looked at her. She’d studied him in turn until something had finally given way inside of her. “I’ll miss you,” she’d admitted, as she’d stroked her thumb across his shoulder. 

“And I you, but we’ll see one another soon,” he’d reassured her and she’d seemed to breathe a little more easily. 

“All right,” she’d relented. 

“Thank you.” He’d made to peck at her lips chastely, but had hesitated when she’d started to deepen things just as he’d begun to pull away from her. He’d studied her for a moment, before he’d tentatively made to kiss her again. She’d scooted even closer and had wrapped her arms around him. They’d both mumbled and had groaned senselessly. They’d pulled slightly away, twisted towards one another, so that they’d _both_ been at a better angle and then Mycroft had placed a series of fevered kisses against her lips. He’d mumbled praise for her at the same time. He’d only pulled away again when he’d felt her fingers reaching to undo his shirt buttons. He’d seen from her eyes that she’d wanted, perhaps even _needed_ more from him in that moment and had begun to undo the shirt buttons _himself,_ but she’d turned suddenly shy. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I _want_ to if it’s what _you_ do, but I’ll have to”-

“No.” She’d _known_ that he’d been about to mention the fact that he’d have to leave the room in order to buy protection and hadn’t wanted him to go, not even for a second.

His eyes had flicked to hers. She’d done a quick nod of her head, before she’d, and in one precise movement, pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. At seeing her in her underwear [he hadn’t had the _courage_ to remove her bra and allow her to sleep as she normally would have done] Mycroft’s finger had missed one of the shirt buttons. He’d had to change her into the nightgown in the first place of course, but he had been so full of worry that the act had been a rather robotic thing and _very_ unlike her conscious self _choosing_ to be like that with him. He’d left the last two buttons and his shirt had _gaped_ as he’d moved closer to her. He’d kissed the goose-pimpled flesh of her neck and shoulder. She’d placed her palm upon his bare skin and he’d kissed at her lips, before she’d twisted away from him. In the next moment she’d straddled him. He’d looked at her in astonishment. 

“Is this all right?” she’d checked.

_“Mm.”_ His face had slowly softened and she’d known then that the matter of protection would not be mentioned again. Slowly his eyes had moved to her bra strap. He’d seemed to have decided that it was in his way, for in the next moment he’d pushed it down the incline of her shoulder. _“This?”_ His eyes had darted to her in order to check. Their hearts had thumped.

_“I_ don’t see any problem.” She’d pushed the other strap down herself and had undone it at the back-she’d been supported by him and had squeezed his thighs in order to keep her balance-before she’d thrown it determinedly aside. 

She’d barely turned back again when his head had bowed down towards her breasts. The unexpected sight of the thing had turned her on [she’d _known_ from when they’d fooled around before that Mycroft seemed to prefer her posterior.] She’d appreciated it when he’d seemed to have decided that even _with_ that being the case he was going to adore all of her body that day. He’d kissed down to her nipples, before he’d brought his head back up again and had lightly grazed the path that he’d previously taken with his teeth, breathing heavily as he’d inhaled her. She’d squirmed and had thrust a little helplessly against him. 

_“Mm.”_ She’d felt him growing harder beneath her. She’d rocked against him a couple of times more, before her hand had gone to the button of his trousers. His hand had come to quickly partially cover hers and she’d stilled, a little taken aback by his act. _Afraid_ that he was going to turn her down and say that he’d changed his mind. As if to reassure her his fingers had gently intertwined with hers and he’d met her movement as she’d instinctively rocked against him. He’d let out a bit of a groan, before he’d hazily located her eyes. “Are you sure?” he’d asked. “I don’t want you to-after what you’ve learnt today-to have any regrets.”

“I’m sure.” A beat had passed between them. _“You?”_

“Mm. Although I’m afraid that I haven’t learnt about your body as thoroughly as I’d have liked to,” he’d flirted with her charmingly.

“You know what to do.” She’d been quite _sure_ about that. _“Besides,_ we have enough time. _I’m_ not going anywhere.” He’d looked troubled by that _and,_ caught in the moment, she’d just thought that he was being uncertain. She’d kissed at his cheek and neck, as she’d wanted him to feel safe and secure in the longevity of their relationship. She’d found both of his hands and had pushed him gently back until he’d been lying horizontally across the bed, his legs dangling off its edge. She’d felt his initial surprise. Felt the way that he’d clung _just_ that little bit tighter to her, no doubt afraid that she’d fall or some other such nonsense and been aware of the fact that she’d have to relax him and remind him of what they were doing. 

Adjusting her position she’d rocked against him a couple of times, enough to get him to respond again. Then she’d clambered off him completely. 

He’d evidently been confused for he’d let out a bit of a breath and had lifted his head so that he’d been able to look at her. 

She’d met his gaze, before she’d stepped out of her underwear. She’d fumbled a little bit with the process. 

He’d found it endearing and had sat up to watch her. He’d managed to do such a thing gracefully enough in _spite_ of his pounding heart and the way that he’d felt his body reacting as his eyes had trailed her up and down. His body had hardly moved at all otherwise. 

Finally his hand had clumsily reached for the last few remaining buttons of his shirt. When he’d undone them she’d strode across to him bravely, although her chest had been tight with breath and had slid the shirt off of his shoulders. He’d pushed it towards the end of the bed and she’d smiled. He’d stood. His hands had met around her lower back. He’d cupped at her tenderly and she’d grinned up at him. Her hands had linked around the back of his neck. 

“Do you want to be on”-

“No, I want you. Can _you_ be there?” she’d asked him.

Without further ado he’d swung her around and pushed her gently on the bed. He’d moved to hover above her. _“Certainly,”_ he’d smiled in a gentlemanly fashion at her, before he’d put his head close to hers and had kissed at her cheek, nuzzling at her skin slightly. 

Her heart had skipped inside her body. Her laughter hadn’t quite formed. Rather she’d exhaled bursts of air, before she’d run a hand down the centre of his body and grown more thoughtful as she’d done such a thing. “I don’t know _why_ you don’t look after yourself more,” the words had come out of her automatically and she’d instantly regretted them when he’d tensed. “Not your body,” she’d trailed invisible letters into his chest hair and his brow had furrowed as he’d tried to focus on her verbal words and _not_ on her actions, “Not just that anyway. _All_ of yourself. I don’t know how you can place so much value on anything that is _not_ you.” 

“Hush now.” He’d tapped at her nose. “I thought you wanted _me_ to be in control?” 

“I’ve changed my mind.” He’d allowed her to flip them over and then had done the necessary movements to assist in her attempt to pull his trousers and underwear down one-handedly [she’d sensed his nerves and had insisted on stroking his hand with her other.] “I love you,” she’d murmured, both fondness and anticipation in her voice as she’d lowered herself slowly down upon him. He’d frowned when she’d stopped and had seemed to be in some pain. Her eyes had been squeezed shut as he’d helped to steady her in the position that she’d been in and tears had threatened to leak out of them. 

_“F/N?_ We don’t have to”-

_“No.”_

“Go as slowly as you’d like,” he’d encouraged her. He’d wondered if there was anything that he could do, but before he’d been able to ask her if there was she’d opened her eyes and had sunk down. They’d exclaimed a little as the final barrier had been broken between them and he’d been inside her fully. Her eyes had been on the headboard, but they’d swiveled down to him. “All right?” It had been tempting to move, but he’d stopped himself. She’d nodded and had looked a little astonished. He’d tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, before he’d traced a tender finger down her cheek, neck and just beyond her collarbone. “You look so beautiful.”

Encouraged by his gentleness she’d begun to move slowly against him. She’d bit her lip. Her eyes had focused on where their bodies had joined. 

Seeing her preoccupation he’d eased himself up. Her eyes had gone to him uncertainly. He’d kissed her softly and had hoped to distract her. She’d wrapped her legs more tightly around him and he’d felt the change in her heartbeat, as she’d gotten more aroused from the kiss and by the feeling of him being inside her. 

_“Better?”_ he’d murmured as he’d lowered himself back to the bed and she’d straddled him more confidently. Her eyes had burnt with love and determination. 

_“Yes.”_ Their hands had tangled together. He’d groaned as her grip had tightened. She’d rolled her hips and had moved against him again and again and again.

Her hands had gone from his to his chest-she’d been so careful and hadn’t wanted to hurt him that he’d had to place them there more firmly or she would have been at risk of falling off him. She’d laughed a little mockingly at herself and then had bitten down upon her lip as she’d set more of a bruising pace and had hoped to get better at things. He’d uttered something incoherently and had moved his body up to meet her actions. His hands had fastened themselves against her hips and occasionally gone to push her hair away from her face. The headboard had squeaked.

_“My,”_ she’d muttered when she’d gotten close. “I need you to”-

He’d managed to stay inside her as he’d eased them slowly around. She’d opened her legs wider for him and had given him as much access as possible, as she’d rushed closer to her orgasm. Leaning above her he’d angled himself and had slowly moved until she’d gasped pleasurably and had blissfully closed her eyes. As he’d thrust more powerfully into her, her eyes had opened. She’d gasped a little and had grasped at his arm. He’d worried that he’d hurt her. 

“No, don’t stop,” she’d told him as he’d slowed down and had panted heavily above her. “There, right there.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Yeah. Oh God.” Her hand had flexed against his arm as his body had done more of a forceful stroke against her. As he’d watched her react he’d steadily increased his pace and had moved more and more out of the realms of his own control. “Oh My.” Her body had become tenser and had pushed close to his. The nails on one of her hands had dug into his back. He’d groaned at being inside her more deeply, before he’d spilled everything that he was into her. She’d come _and,_ for a moment, as his body had collapsed against hers they’d just flown together, her gripping on to his arm and pulling at his hair, him both shuddering and trying to hold on to each and every moment, finally the ultimate team.

It had passed, like every moment had done with her, all too soon.

She’d pecked at his cheek, rubbed at his back and had mumbled that she loved him again, before he’d eased himself slowly out of her. Once he’d cleaned them both up sufficiently he’d held her to him underneath the duvet and side-by-side they’d stared at the ceiling and gone through what had happened in their own minds. She’d squeezed at his hand. He’d pecked at her forehead, as his happiness had slowly turned into both sadness and regret. She’d fallen asleep. Tired himself he’d disentangled himself from her and gone to do what he’d had to.


	16. The Roads We Walk

When she’d awoken she hadn’t noticed at first that one of the bags had been gone _or_ the letter that had been in an envelope for her on the bedside cabinet. All she’d felt was the remnants from her earlier high and she’d smiled to herself for a moment.

_“My?”_ He hadn’t been beside her, but she’d thought that she’d heard a noise from the adjoining bathroom, so she’d pulled her dressing gown, which had been left near by, around her and rather happily gone to investigate it. “You could have awoken me if you were going to have a shower, you know? I wouldn’t have”- her voice had cut off abruptly. 

The bathroom had been empty.

Back in the bedroom she’d looked towards the door. That’s when she’d noticed the missing luggage. Her heart had skipped a beat. She’d known that he’d had to go, but he wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye, would he? 

She’d noticed the letter. 

As she’d read it she’d sat on the bed: _F/N, I appreciate that by the time you read this you will probably be feeling confused, hurt and angry. You have every right to be. I do not expect your forgiveness. [You have been kind enough to me already my dear and I feel sure by now that you must be close to extinguishing such an emotion.] All I hope for is that a certain level of understanding will come to you once some time has passed. You see, there is no easy way for me to say this, but I have to give up the intimacy that we have created in our relationship and I have to do so for your own good._

_It is not me being stupid and noble as you might think._

_Rather [and though I wrote this when you were asleep on our way to Canada I hope that I might have, in that short time that we had there, been able to express a mere fraction of my feelings towards you and the gratitude that I will always have for the courage that you have given me] it is because of the value and respect that I hold for you that I do not wish to drag things out or complicate them any more._

_You see I might not have been able to quite believe that you loved me when we first kissed [I have more faith in the thing since and hope that you will forgive me now for every moment where I have faltered] but I was wise enough to see the hope that was in your eyes for the future that we could have had even back then. I have to give you up because I cannot give you that future._

_I have tried. Please, and I know that I have no right to ask you this, but please believe me when I write that I have tried. None of this is hitting the page lightly my dear, but I know, after having looked at it from so many angles, that it is not possible._

_I love you and I will always love you [though when you are done with this letter I would recommend that you burn it for your own safety] yet you did not sign up for this._

_For every nightmare that I’ve had. For every moment that you thought me to be a mystery. For having found something so horrible out about your parents [something for which I cannot apologize for keeping from you enough] and finally for what is about to be revealed about me in the media. You should not have had to put up with any of it and I will not allow you to do so any more. You do not deserve such a thing._

_You can rest assured, however, that I will be trying to make things as easy as possible for you going forward. I will tell my parents that regrettably we have broken up, but that we have done so in an amicable fashion. You will still be able to see them. I know that it might be hard for you to see the memorial to your parents, but I think that it might be a good idea for you to do so at some point. You are of course welcome to disagree with me. Whatever you decide you don’t have to worry about me being at my parents’ home at the same time. I will do my utmost to work around your visits. I would think though that my parents would be thrilled to hear from you as soon as you return to England. You will still have your security and I, of course, will always be here for you. The provision in my will for you will not change. I hope that you will still feel able to come to me with a problem. I do not think it wise for us to speak otherwise._

_I do, however, wish you all the best in Canada and with coming to terms with all you have learnt._

_Please do not fight me on this._

_With kind regards, Mycroft._

_PS Give my best to your grandmother and tell her that I’m sorry that I was unable to visit her this time._

Hurt and anger had echoed off F/N like a force field. For him to say all of that and then to just sign off with…as if nothing had ever…as if she really _cared_ about his will or any possible awkwardness when visiting his parents when it compared to him running away, him having thrown their friendship aside as much as anything else. Him being _noble_ when he claimed that he wasn’t.

A combination of adrenaline and determination had led her to book the first flight back to London.

She’d exhaled once it had been done. She’d follow Mycroft back to England, she’d thought. They would talk it all over. Whatever he claimed she’d been sure that he was merely trying to protect everyone and to remain in control. Perhaps he was frightened? The thought had sent a shiver down her spine. She’d looked back through the letter to see whether she’d be able to work out why. What exactly had he meant by, _‘For what is about to be revealed about me in the media?’_ Her hands had tried to grasp and snatch at all the possible meanings to his words in her mind, but they’d failed, for two thoughts had overcome her desire each time and made her sink back down into them. The first had been a slight disappointment that she hadn’t been able to help because he’d hidden something from her. The second that he shouldn’t have been blocking her out, that he should have _known_ by that point that if he’d just told her about it all and been honest with her, even about the uncertain feelings that had clearly flowed through him about their relationship, then there was precious little that she _wouldn’t_ have been willing to work with him on. She would have figured out a role for herself. She would have done her best to support him, to reassure him that whatever he felt about her not deserving what he had and _would_ be putting her through it was her decision as well. She’d made her choice and she’d stuck with it again when she’d booked her flight home. They were a team. She still wanted to be a _part_ of that team, but he’d run away and her heart had felt in agony because of it, at the thought of not knowing what he had been going through…

She’d breathed heavily several times. She figured that there wasn’t anything much she had been able to do about her mixed emotions in that moment. She would be back in London and hopefully be able to resolve things with Mycroft soon.

For the time being, and to try and keep her mind occupied and as Mycroft had suggested she do, she would go and see her grandmother. 

She’d switched her phone on in order to try and work out the distance from the hotel-the name of which she’d worked out by looking around-to her grandmother’s place in the heart of Toronto. She may not have been there before, but Violet had passed on the address to her long ago in order to reassure her that not all her family had abandoned her and that there was a way for F/N to get in touch with her grandmother if she so wished. She had never used it, but had memorized it all the same. It was something that she was grateful for in that moment.

Her phone had buzzed, however, with text messages and had distracted her from her initial intention almost immediately.

All the messages had been from Sherlock: **You need to get in touch with me.**

**F/N this is urgent.**

**For God’s sake would you please put your phone on?!**

It hadn’t taken him long to get impatient with her and the rest of the messages had just been curses and mini-rants with Sherlock having suggested that he could have been doing all manner of fun [and even _non_ -fun] things, instead of him just sitting around and waiting for her to get in touch with him.

“I wasn’t stopping you,” her gut reaction had been one of a barely tolerant stubbornness, similar no doubt to the one that _Mycroft_ would have had in her situation and she’d felt a pang of pain.

_Sherlock?_

**Finally!!!** He’d responded in no time at all.

_I take it you’ve heard from Mycroft?_ Was it strange that her hand had shaken as she’d typed his name? That her chest had grown tight, _both_ as the memory of the intimacy that they’d shared had flown back to her and _because_ of the letter that she’d read afterwards? When waiting for Sherlock’s response had gotten too much for her she’d added: _He left me here in a hotel in Canada with a letter saying essentially that although he still loves me we can’t be together any more. He’s on his way back to London._

**You need to return as well.**

_I will be._ She’d passed on the details of the flight.

**Good. I’ll come and pick you up.**

She’d felt a little relief at that. That she’d be able to see someone familiar the moment that she got back. Of course she would have preferred _Mycroft_ …for them to be on the same page. A _team_ again. She wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that she was glad, however, and had felt awkward about the pause in her conversation with him, so she’d just put, _You agree that Mycroft’s just being Mycroft, though, right? Overprotective? Controlling? I’ll be able to speak some sense into him, won’t I?_ She’d cursed herself for sounding like she needed reassurance.

**He said that he put everything he needed to in the letter?** Sherlock had answered her question _with_ a question.

_He sounded a bit weird. Obviously most people would do in those circumstances, but he said something about how something would be revealed in the media about him?_

She’d been taken aback when Sherlock had rung her a moment later. She’d connected in time to hear him as he’d cursed his brother.

“He made it sound like he’d told you everything in the letter. That although you hadn’t had a conversation about it, which would have been better and what _I_ would have told him to do if he’d consulted me, he”-

“What’s going on Sherlock?” F/N had bitten at her lip. “Why did Mycroft run away from me?” 

“He-F/N, did you ever believe him when he said that he occupied a _minor_ position in the British government?” 

“I thought he was being modest at first, which I know you thought was”-

_“Hilarious,_ yes,” even at _that_ point Sherlock had snickered down the line, “Because my brother’s the _last_ person who’d want to be modest in front of you. He wouldn’t want you to think him arrogant either, but he’s _always_ wanted to impress you. Go on.”

"I knew that he watched some of my premieres via CCTV and you always used to joke and things..." She'd wondered momentarily how _much_ Sherlock had known about it all. "But I never really dwelt on it at that point. I was just getting on with my _own_ life." In hindsight it had looked incredibly selfish to her. "Whilst after Eurus, after Eurus”-she’d fidgeted with her hair a little-“I guess I figured that he _must_ have some greater control there or at the very _least_ have been able to exercise a certain amount of authority”-

“Is that really _all_ you came up with?” Sherlock had snorted at her lack of creativity in that area. 

She’d flushed in embarrassment and had crossed one leg over the other. “Well, there were _other_ things after I found out about Eurus that kind of took prominence, y’know? I was helping Mycroft out with his nightmares and”-

_“Hm.”_ Sherlock had decided to cut her off there. "Like you were more than likely helping him in the _hotel,_ before he left?"

_“Sherlock!_ I-I take it that it’s something about his work that will come out?” She'd tried to get over her embarrassment. 

“It’s something about his work that _has_ come out,” Sherlock had corrected her with a firm gentleness. “It turns out that Mycroft wasn’t able to use his work to impress you because it’s not something that _he’s_ probably proud of himself and telling you might have meant that _you_ would be in danger”-

_“I”-_ F/N hadn’t known what to say to the fact that Mycroft had been trying to protect her again. “What is it? What do I need to know?” 

“My brother, he…” there had been a bit of a pause and F/N had felt on edge. “He did certain things, no doubt he felt _pressurized_ to do them in order to maintain his job because he felt he needed to protect us, but it’s the _extent_ of that, that has made its way into the papers and online. Of course the media don’t have the context of the thing. They don’t know Mycroft either. _Not_ in the way that you and I do. To them Mycroft just looks like some power-hungry, middle-aged, white man who has too much control and who has committed numerous sins in order to obtain it. They say that the government _can’t_ live without him”-

_“Why_ Sherlock? What exactly has he done?” She’d expected it to be bad, but it had seemed like when Sherlock had swallowed and taken a moment at the other end for himself that it was _far_ worse than she’d feared.

“You need to remember the entirety of who he is when I do. You need to _promise_ me that you’ll still come back here…that you’ll _still_ talk to him because I believe that you are the _only_ person who can get him out of this mess. He needs you right now. He’s not as strong as he likes to think he is. They’ll be holding an inquiry about all this and he’ll fall apart if”-

“I promise,” F/N’s voice had just about managed to hold steady.

_“Good,”_ Sherlock had exhaled. “My brother has enemies. He has such things _because,_ over the years, he’s been particularly involved in the security and defence of our country. He might have worked across all departments, but _those_ are his areas of particular expertise. He’s, unbeknownst to the Prime Minister according to the press, though of course the PM knows it all, set up channels in which to allow our captured enemies to be tortured for information, enemies that would have been captured in the _first_ place due to information that he’d organized. He’s made sure that weapons have been diverted and sent to those who we have allied ourselves secretly with overseas. Wars have begun and been continued with his help. People-children amongst them-will have _died_ because Mycroft has enabled it. Whilst at home he’s used his gift for both researching and cataloguing information to have many of the government’s political enemies destroyed. Did you never wonder about where those sudden out-of-the-blue stories about certain politicians came from? Put together the fact that Mycroft was working late around that time or seemed to be more tired?”

“I-Of _course_ I didn’t know. We weren’t together at the time.” She’d felt guilty though. She’d never realized the _extent_ to which Mycroft had jeopardized himself, even for those who had not deserved it just so that he had been able to protect those that he _had_ felt were worthy, just like he had been doing through allowing Sherlock to reveal his identity to the world in order to protect F/N and it had made tears roll down her face, whilst her mind had struggled to take it all in. She’d known that it must be true, however. Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered her with it unless he’d thought that it was _vital_ that she know about it. He would have just told her that things that weren’t true had come out. “Before the media-? What did you know? Did you ever-?” 

“I suspected and of course he’s helped me a few times, so I knew bits and I’d put together other things,” Sherlock had been gruff. “The way that he reacted when Eurus said that either John or he would be required to kill the governor at Sherrinford was _also_ a clue”-a question had hung on the line between them-“I’d known that he’s never been that comfortable around guns, despite the fact, and it is clear now why he feels he has to have one himself”-that had only raised _more_ questions in F/N’s mind-“But his reaction makes more sense to me after I have heard what is being said in the media. I understand now that he was being asked to go a step further, to carry out _murder,_ when before he’d only been forced to _hold_ all of the bad strings of government, albeit at gunpoint. It must have been too much for him. In any case there’s a certain level of irony to the wars that I used to accuse him of starting now…"

"The _gun_ Sherlock? You mentioned that Mycroft has one?"

"Yes...a sword and a gun can be found inside of the umbrella that he carries." F/N had let out a breath. "So we can learn from that, that he must never feel safe and is always mentally on the run, which is _why_ his nightmares are horrific. Because of the _government._ Because of his _own_ belief that he needs to do these things and his constant worry about failure. He is the government’s most useful pawn. His own worst enemy and one that they have _barely_ had to keep in line up until this point.” Sherlock had taken a bit of a breath. “But his _own_ fingerprints are all over the work behind the scenes and the world’s media are beginning to pull at the threads because they _know_ what they are looking for. They’ve unraveled enough for an inquiry, as I have said, but no doubt there’s _more_ things to be uncovered. Mycroft’s in danger.” 

“Then we have to save him,” F/N had murmured faintly, “Because _they’re_ not going to, are they?” Her head had spun.

_“No._ They’ve been exploiting my brother’s weaknesses about protecting his family for years now. They’ll use him as their human shield right until the last moment, right until it looks as if this government has no other option but to fail and by then it’ll be too late for Mycroft. He will be a bullet-ridden corpse on the battlefield,” Sherlock had been bitter.

F/N had swallowed a couple of times. Her mind had pinged around different parts of the conversation that they’d just had, before she’d added, _“Why?_ Why did you let Mycroft do this? _Why_ did you put that tweet out about us? Saying that we got married when we”-

_“I_ wanted to protect you as well,” Sherlock had answered her honestly. “I knew it would distract from you and that they’d focus on _him_ because of his links to me. In any case my brother would have never”-

_“But”-_ F/N had cut off his words about how Mycroft would never have _not_ allowed him to do such a thing. 

“If I suspected or feared that things were this bad, I know, maybe I should have put him first, but it helped that I knew he was on board with it all. Now I am trusting that even _with_ that out there you will come and put a stop to it and help to sort it all out. I wasn’t lying before. I _really_ think that you’re the only one who can.” 

“I will,” F/N had reassured him, “I’ll probably need your help, but I will as soon as I’ve seen my grandmother.”

“You’re going to see her?” a crack of light relief had broken through Sherlock’s tone. “I wasn’t sure if you would be, but I’m glad that you are. It will probably make you _feel_ better, won’t it?”

_“Perhaps.”_ Truthfully she’d thought that her mind would be more on Mycroft. “About some things.”

_“Mm.”_ Sherlock had seemed to be thinking of his brother as well.

“I’ll do my best Sher.”

“I know.”

Whilst both of them had felt emotional and apprehensive about what had been to come they’d broken up the call. 

F/N had taken a few deep breaths, swiped away her tears and had switched off her phone, before she’d remembered that she’d still needed to look up the distance between the hotel and her grandmother’s place. In the end, however, she hadn’t switched her phone back on. No matter how far away her grandmother’s place was she’d take a taxi. [She figured that considering that Mycroft had brought them to _that_ very hotel and to the country with the specific intention of her seeing her grandmother that it would not be very far away.] In any case she needed the few moments that she had to think. 

She’d rummaged through what Mycroft had packed for her. There were the essentials, including some rolled up Canadian dollar notes, some spare change in the same currency and her main debit card [Mycroft it seemed _hadn’t_ been willing to take any chances] as well as enough clothes to last her at _least_ a couple of weeks. She’d been making to stow the letter that he’d left her safely inside the bag, before it had occurred to her that with what Sherlock had just said maybe she would have been wiser to keep it on her. She’d dressed in order to accommodate the fact. 

With Mycroft’s letter safely zipped inside the breast pocket of her dark jacket and anything else that she might need having safely been put in a small bag that had been packed inside the larger one [she’d return for the rest of her possessions, before her flight] she’d headed out. 

It had been cold, but no worse temperature wise than your average day in London at that time of year and had felt a bit strange, as she’d heard people with a Canadian accent and seen that small part of the country on her own. Though she’d been to places independently before she liked the idea of traveling with someone and the thought had made her wonder what _Mycroft_ had made of it all when they’d first arrived. She hadn’t thought that he’d been to Canada previously. 

As soon as she’d summoned a taxi, got inside it and rattled off her grandmother’s address-a location that the taxi driver had seemed pleased about and F/N had felt _sure_ that he was going to take the longest route to get to the heart of Toronto-her mind had barely come away from Mycroft. Occasionally her eyes had picked something out in the scenery, such as the CN Tower and the Toronto Eaton Centre-both places that she would have liked to have gone to with Mycroft-but it had been rare. 

She still hadn’t been sure of what to do about the situation and how to live up to Sherlock’s expectation of her when the taxi had rolled to a halt. Her mind not ready, as it had turned out, to meet the moment ahead she’d paid the large sum for what had been, she’d seen as she’d looked at her watch, a short journey of under half-an-hour and had gotten out a little reluctantly. 

Her grandmother lived in a mid-century dull and brown apartment block and F/N had made her way across to it underneath the grey sky, which had semi-threatened snow. 

She’d partially turned her mind off of Mycroft to navigate her way up to the floor, but she’d been in front of her grandmother’s door and had just knocked upon it when the full force of what she’d been about to do had hit her and Mycroft had fallen completely out of her mind. What if her grandmother didn’t like her? What if it hadn’t been the _shame_ of what her daughter had done that had made her move to Canada, but _fear_ as well that her granddaughter would turn out to be like her mother? Had that _also_ been the reason for why she hadn’t been in touch with F/N ever since? Maybe she’d slam the door in F/N’s face and they’d never even get to have a conversation about what had happened? 

The sound of uneven footsteps and a chain being unhooked from the door a few moments later had made F/N’s thoughts falter. Her breath had caught inside of her chest. 

A few seconds later the door had opened and she’d found herself looking at her grandmother for the first time in years.

By that point she had become shorter than F/N-something that had startled F/N and she’d had to adjust the tilt of her gaze to accommodate the fact. She’d done such a thing harshly at first and had caught sight of the silver necklace that her grandmother had worn of an anchor. Her wedding ring had been embedded in it and had reminded F/N that her grandfather had been in the Merchant Navy, whilst her grandmother had worked for a shipping company. Her greying h/c hair had been tied up neatly behind her head, except for the wispy strands, which had hung down towards her shoulders and had given F/N a preview as to how her mother might have looked if she’d ever lived to be that age. As soon as she’d seen F/N her e/c eyes had widened and then softened momentarily, before they’d hardened and she’d worn a no-nonsense frown upon her face. “You know?” she’d whispered in a cracked tone and the door had creaked in her grasp. F/N had nodded. She’d found it suddenly hard to speak. “Then you better come in,” her grandmother had said.

“Thank you.” F/N had cleared her throat and had followed her grandmother’s chunky body-clad in red trousers, a dark top and a short blue waistcoat-further into the house, before she’d closed the door behind her. As she’d done such a thing the smell of fish soup had hit her nostrils more forcefully. 

Her grandmother had turned the temperature of the soup down-the kitchenette had, had lots of Tupperware boxes on its counters-and had led her to the main living area at the back of the apartment, which had been separated from the kitchenette by a white divider in contrast to the blue walls. Around it a small television set and settee in two colours that had reminded F/N of seaweed with a matching armchair had formed a tunnel of sorts, which had led F/N’s eyes to notice something else: photos on pretty beige shelves of F/N as a young child and her parents as younger people too, DVD’s and a stack of magazines, all featuring films and TV programmes that F/N had been in. 

“A friend made a copy of all those adverts that you’ve been in as well, so I have them,” her grandmother had told her and F/N had thought-though it might have been just hope-that she’d detected a hint of pride in her tone.

F/N had not known what to say. She’d, for some reason, not expected her grandmother to have much idea about what she did. A small part of her, in the swirling emotions that she’d faced, before the door had been answered to her had even feared that she might have had to _beg_ just for her grandmother-who had moved on from all that had happened in F/N’s mind-to have a single conversation with her. Yet… _also_ for some reason there her grandmother had been, casually talking about the makeshift shrine that she’d carefully been crafting in her honour for all these years. Had she _really_ been proud of her? If she’d been able to then F/N would have shared the moment with someone, _Mycroft,_ if they had been properly talking. She’d felt sad about the thing.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea.” Her grandmother had bustled over to the kitchenette. She’d patted at F/N’s arm on the way. A moment later she’d called across to her a little embarrassedly, “How do you take yours?” 

F/N had turned to her and given her, her usual tea order. She hadn’t specified about how she usually kept the spoon in the cup. No matter _how_ well that things had been going she’d worried that her grandmother would think her quite strange if she revealed such a thing, so she’d stayed silent on the issue and had decided to just put up with how the tea would be when it was served to her.

“You can sit down. Make yourself at home.” Her grandmother had sounded vaguely amused by her as she’d gone past and placed the two cups down on the clear coffee table that had been in front of the settee.

F/N had done such a thing-sitting a little awkwardly, whilst she’d vaguely felt like she would disappear into the material-and watched as her grandmother had not done the same, but had rather fetched a box that had been to the side of the makeshift shrine. She’d brushed off some of the dust that had settled on top of it with her weather-beaten hand, before she’d picked it up and had carried it over to the coffee table. F/N had been uncertain about helping her with it, but she’d seemed to be managing fine, so she’d hung back. Her grandmother had placed it on the coffee table. F/N had looked up at her nervously. Her grandmother had settled into the armchair. F/N had been sat on the edge of one end of the settee so they’d been close together.

“It might help to explain some things that you’re no doubt wondering about, but you might like to fortify yourself with some tea before you do.” F/N had taken an obliging sip and had inhaled another scent along with the tea that had been rather lemony in its quality, whilst her grandmother had looked a little tentatively on. “Can I get you a biscuit to go with that or something more heartening?” Her grandmother had asked her when F/N had settled the cup back on the table.

“No thank you.”

“I can hardly believe that you’re here.” Her grandmother had drunk in her image. Was it _wrong_ that F/N had felt her gaze more intensely than those of the many cameras that had been focused her way in life? “I feel I’ve been waiting for you all this time. Where are you staying at? Will you be here for long? Did you come here with friends?”

“Not friends no.” F/N had smiled tentatively. Her mood had dipped further as she’d thought of Mycroft again. “I’ve got a flight for later on today.” 

“Oh, I see,” her grandmother had sounded disappointed by the fact. 

As F/N had felt more pressure upon herself her eyes had gone to the box and her hands had started to bring it closer to her. She’d taken off the lid. There were photographs inside-of her parents, their friends and the wider, extended family, but there had been a seriousness to her parents even when everyone else had been smiling-and yellowing clippings that had been in the newspaper after what her mother had done. A lump had risen to her throat as she’d scanned and rifled through them. “It’s true then?” She’d let go of the corner of the clippings. They’d made a soft sighing noise, before they’d settled back down into the box, as if they’d been waiting for her all that time. F/N had pushed further back into the settee.

“I’m afraid so.” 

F/N’s hands had tangled together. Her head had bowed. She’d held back tears. For a moment, and because of everything that had been going on with Mycroft, it had been almost _easy_ for her to believe that the revelation about her parents had just been some sort of weird dream that she’d had. Something that her sub-conscious had invented. It was _less_ easy to believe such a thing as she’d sat in her grandmother’s apartment with all the evidence before her.

_“Why?”_ she’d blurted out. She’d looked at her grandmother. “Why do you think that she did that Grandma? _Is_ there even a reason?” She’d been perplexed.

“Oh child.” Her grandmother had gotten up with some hidden energy like a sudden wave and had caused a loud creak in the armchair. F/N had shifted forwards. As her grandmother had spun around and held on to her shoulders, rubbed at her upper back and then gone to clutch supportively at her shoulders she’d hugged her grandmother’s middle and pressed her head to her chest. Her heart was not the loudest-hidden beneath the bumps and curves of her grandmother’s body-but it had still been there and it had comforted F/N more than she’d ever thought it would in that moment. As they’d sought warmth and solace from one another her grandmother’s dry hands had attempted to run through F/N’s hair soothingly. She’d frowned as she’d hit a few knots. “I have my own theories.” F/N’s father had said a similar thing in F/N’s dream-only about Violet and why she might have made the memorial for F/N's mother-and F/N had shivered.

“You do?” F/N had watched, and been aware as her grandmother’s faint vanilla scent had been covered up by the stronger smell of fish that had prevailed in the apartment, as her grandmother had stepped back and gone beyond one of the two doors in the place. She’d returned a few moments later with a hairbrush. It had been pink, even down to its bristles, which had contrasted with the lighter shade of its handle. A cartoon drawing of a princess and her animal friends had been on the back of it. It was clearly meant for a child. Half a memory had come back to F/N in that moment, but she hadn’t been able to grasp at it all.

“Close your eyes,” her grandmother had whispered. Her voice had gurgled like an ocean current.

Slowly F/N had. She’d felt hands come just beneath her shoulders in the next moment and _seen_ the shifting light beneath her lids as the older woman had moved. F/N had slowly moved herself into the position that her grandmother had wanted her to be in. She’d heard her grandmother release a breath like the tide, as it had hit the shore. _Felt_ the brush as it had begun to caress at her hair. 

“I used to do this for you all the time, mostly after you’d been playing with those brothers,” her grandmother had said. 

F/N had remembered it then-the gentle scolding of her grandmother as the older woman had caught her shoulders like a sudden current and brought her to her whenever F/N had tried to run past. She remembered the brush coming out-her grandmother had been a bit like Mary Poppins in the fact that she had _always_ brought her own supplies, no matter _where_ she had been meeting F/N and her mother. [Often F/N’s father had been at work.] F/N had always wanted to continue to play once her grandmother had been done with grooming her, even though her grandmother had always said something about how young ladies should behave, but F/N had _known_ that she hadn’t minded really. Mycroft, however, had always seemed to be put off by the interference of F/N’s grandmother and had suggested that they wind down whatever scene they’d be acting out at the time. Sometimes she’d carried on with Sherlock anyway, but mostly she’d listened, not liking to see the pouting expression that had come over Mycroft’s face if she hadn’t. At both the thought and memory of Mycroft, however, she’d begun to fiddle with her hands and pain had grown in her chest again.

“How are Violet and her husband doing these days? Are they all right?”

“Oh yeah”- 

_“And_ the boys?”

F/N hadn’t been able to talk about Mycroft or Sherlock right in that moment. She’d cleared her throat awkwardly. “Why did you leave, Grandma?” The brush had stilled in her hair, before it had come away from it altogether-a feather swept up to the sky. Upon hearing her grandmother let out a sigh F/N had opened her eyes. She’d swiveled around a little. Her gaze had lifted to meet that of her grandmother’s. “Were you ashamed?” she’d asked her.

“I admit that there was a little bit of that. The stigma-things weren’t what they are now-though I’m sure you find that hard to accept as an excuse?” She’d cupped at the bottom of F/N’s hair and had made it bounce a little. By doing such a thing had F/N been made more real to her?

“And”-F/N had begun tentatively, but she’d _had_ to know for definite-“Was part of that shame to do with me? A fear maybe that I’d end up the same way?”

“Goodness me, no,” her grandmother had looked horrified by the idea. “I wouldn’t have _left_ if I thought that might be the case. No,” she’d shaken her head, “I concluded that you’d be better off where you were, with Violet and the boys aside from the times that you’d be with your godmother of course.” Her grandmother had gone on to look at her speculatively. “Was I right?” she’d asked her when F/N hadn’t said anything.

“It’s not as simple as that.” F/N had let out a bit of a frustrated sigh and had slid to the back of the settee with her head lowered. Her grandmother had placed the brush lightly on the coffee table and made her way back to sit down on the armchair. “It’s complicated.”

“Most things are.” F/N had looked at her. It had been her _grandmother’s_ turn to sigh. “Did you ever wonder why you used to spend so much time with those brothers and me?” 

“I didn’t.” F/N had shaken her head. She’d been too caught up having fun. “But now I assume that it had something to do with my mother?”

“Yes, your mother had her _fair_ share of issues.” Her grandmother had patted at her hand. “It was difficult for your father to cope. The one joy he got was from seeing you play so happily on the occasions that you went to the Holmes’s place and he wasn’t working. I’ve wondered for a while now if he had enough that final day?” F/N had looked at her sharply. “If he told your mother that he was going to leave her and take you with him? For as much as your mother struggled she loved you dearly you know.” She’d reached for her hair in that moment, as if she’d just _had_ to touch her and F/N had allowed her to stroke at it rhythmically, whilst she’d contemplated the prospect. Her grandmother’s theory _had_ made sense on the face of it. If her father’s words had pushed her mother over the edge, or if he hadn’t read her mother’s mood right, and in any case there might _never_ have been a right time to do such a thing, or her mother might have been inwardly struggling with something on that day…her grandmother had spoken again, _“Now,_ would you like to tell me what is complicated in _your_ life?”

F/N had swallowed and pulled away from her. Images had flashed through her mind, before it had settled on Mycroft’s contemplating face. “I don’t know how much you remember the brothers specifically, but one of them, _Mycroft”-_ she’d found herself explaining a little awkwardly. Explaining that they’d become romantically linked after he’d confessed the truth about Eurus. That in turn had been something that had surprised her grandmother who had still believed Eurus to be dead- _that,_ apparently, had been the last time that Violet had contacted her, for they’d been on Christmas card terms for a couple of years after her grandmother’s departure. She’d explained that Mycroft had thought that he was protecting Eurus and his family through his job, that he _still_ must have done, telling her grandmother about his brief time as an agent where he’d seemed happier in his life, before things had gone back to the way that they had been. “The media”-

“I _have_ seen some of that coverage. It seems like Mycroft’s become an interesting man”-

“He’s not a bad one,” F/N had been quick to defend him. "He sends his best and would have liked to have been here if he could. I know he would have."

“I would have liked to have seen him too. I never said that he's _bad,”_ her grandmother had told her severely. "But it does seem like he’s gotten mixed up in some things”-things that F/N had sensed her grandmother would have in mind and be assessing Mycroft through the lens of if they ever met again-“I even saw some reports, which said that you’d gotten married.” Her grandmother had eyed F/N’s ring-less fingers with a frown upon her face, before she’d obligingly shown her some of the latest nonsense that had found its way into the Canadian press on her tablet-an accessory that F/N had been surprised that she’d had. “My friend showed me how to use it.” F/N had wondered if she should ask about that, _‘friend.’_ Yet had grown so angry about what she had been seeing-nothing new in terms of what Mycroft had done in his job, but the way that he was being portrayed as someone who had thought that he deserved such power from birth-that she’d forgotten to. Her grandmother, who had been relatively patient up until that point, had looked at F/N maddeningly, before she’d nodded at her fingers.

“No, we’re not married.” Her grandmother had sighed, switched the tablet off and settled back into her armchair once the tablet had been added to the growing number of items that had been on the coffee table. “He-He only told Sherlock to make that announcement in order to try and delay the media from finding out about my parents. He seemed certain that they would and Sherlock wanted to protect me as well so...”

“There hasn’t been any reports on your parents so perhaps it worked?" her grandmother had suggested. "Or maybe Mycroft was worrying for _nothing_ in the first place?”

F/N had hummed and fidgeted. That had been a growing fear of hers-that he’d put a whole lot of additional weight upon his shoulders when nothing would have come out about her, that his fear had acted as a catalyst that would drive every little thing about them _both_ into the public eye. “In any case Mycroft wrote me a letter, saying that he’ll always be there for me, but essentially breaking up with me. He’s gone back to London.” She’d wanted to see him then. Get some reassurance with her _own_ eyes that things hadn’t actually been as bad as they’d seemed and that he was, at the very least, _coping_ with all the pressure. 

“I think you should leave,” her grandmother had told her, evidently aware that F/N’s mind had been elsewhere in that moment and F/N had nodded, “Prepare for your flight and think about what you need to tell him. Don’t give up on anything until you speak to him properly and even _then”-_ she’d warned her. “Be prepared with what you want to say, but don’t worry if you don’t get everything out the first time. Keep on trying.” Once they’d gotten up and gone to the door her grandmother had turned to her. “The pair of you need to sort everything out,” she’d told her. She’d seemed to realize how much time she’d missed in F/N’s life in that moment and had been anxious to give her advice for the situation that she was in. _“Don’t_ let it fester.” 

“I’ll phone you. I’m sure we’ll get to know one another again,” F/N had reassured her.

“Yes, yes, go now.” They’d swapped numbers and hugged tightly, before F/N had left.

*

Her thoughts had remained grounded during the plane ride. Her mind had tried not to become numb or to succumb to sleep even though it would have been a lot easier to float there like one of the clouds and just try to forget everything that had happened, whilst she had the chance to-she sensed that the opportunity would be lost for her as soon as she arrived in London.

At first her mind had tried to reassure herself that returning to London had been the right thing to do. She’d managed to convince herself _further_ when she’d realized that after all Mycroft had situated her in a hotel that had been close to the airport and had made a _point_ of telling her such a thing. Had part of him _wanted_ her to take the bait and follow him home? But she’d _also_ gone on to establish more of a complete plan-something that she’d tried to do logically and like Mycroft and Sherlock would-and had known, by the time that her body had returned to the ground, that though it would be hard for her to do, it was the best thing that she had come up with. 

At the airport and once she’d vaguely noticed that she’d traded one grey sky for another and collected her bag she’d spotted Sherlock’s lean figure, as it had broken through the crowd towards her and had felt relief flood her. That had been until her phone had jangled inside of her pocket.

She’d answered the call distractedly and had instantly felt chastened when she’d heard Violet’s voice on the other end, “Ah, about time, we’ve been trying to ring you for a while dear”-

“Mrs. Holmes, Violet I”-

“You can imagine how surprised Edwin and I were when we heard that Mycroft and you had gotten married”-

_“Mrs. Holmes,”_ F/N had spluttered feverishly.

“Well, of course I _know_ that’s not true dear. You have _both_ made mistakes in the past”- Sherlock had joined F/N and taken her bag from her, before he’d begun to steer her out firmly with his hand upon her back. [F/N had _tried_ to keep the phone in the opposite direction of the journalists who had tried to accost them on their way out, not being _entirely_ sure how much Violet had known and had plugged her other ear with her finger in order to try and establish such a thing more clearly.] “It’s something that perhaps I, regretfully, might have expected from Mycroft,” Violet had continued, as she’d _acted_ at least oblivious to all of F/N’s struggles, “But I would have thought that you would have _known_ better than to think that you’d get away with a quiet ceremony and not inviting us”-

_“Vi”-_ F/N had heard Edwin protest in the background.

“Yes of course,” she’d said herself. She’d vaguely wondered whether to bring up the matter of her parents and the fact that she’d known the truth about them, but it hadn’t seemed like the right moment.

In any case Violet had soon gone on, “So perhaps you can imagine that we were _equally_ just as astonished to hear that the pair of you have broken up on Mycroft’s return to London.”

“I-well-I”- F/N had swallowed with difficulty and had thought that Mycroft hadn’t exactly wasted any time in breaking that news. A burst of cool air had hit her face as she’d exited the hustle and bustle of the airport right as there had been an announcement about one of the next flights. Momentarily she’d lowered her hand from her other ear and done a quick sweep over her shoulder-much to Sherlock’s aggravation. They seemed to have left the press behind.

“I’d like to think that there’s a bigger meaning behind it, that it’s for whatever reason my boys assumed that Mycroft and you would be better off _appearing_ married, to protect you maybe-I heard Mycroft tell Edwin that there’s some idiocy in the papers that I need to avoid and of _course_ I have read every single thing I can about it.” F/N had wondered what she’d thought about it. “Yet my eldest seems to think that your break up is all perfectly real, _instead_ of being an additional sham.” Had F/N been fooling herself or had there been some _genuine_ regret on Violet’s part? Some _genuine_ distant hopes?

“I promise you that I haven’t given up on him,” was all that F/N had been able to say, as the pain of their break up had threatened to overcome her again and the pressure of what she had yet to do had filled her. Would she _really_ be able to pull it all off? Her mind and heart had felt strained with worry. Tears had been close to hand. Sherlock had studied her intently. 

_“Good._ I hope you never will,” Violet had softly whispered. F/N had climbed into the Range Rover that Sherlock had procured from somewhere and he’d closed the door behind her just as she’d heard the call disconnect from the other end. It had been a relief to her. Talking to Violet had made everything all the more real. 

Sherlock had gotten into the driver’s seat. As F/N had lowered the phone from her ear they’d merely sat in silence.

Eventually Sherlock had said, “I expect that you’ll feel better once you’ve seen him.” He’d no doubt expected her to agree with the sentiment and had started the engine.

“I _won’t_ be seeing him immediately.” It had been hard for her to get that out. Harder apparently for Sherlock to hear such a thing-he’d shut off the engine and had looked at her. “I have to do things in a certain way Sher and I’ve decided that this way is for the best.” She’d looked away, before Sherlock had been able to see that, that was something that she’d still been convincing herself of. Her bowed head and fidgeting hands had rather given her position away. “If I see Mycroft now then…what with the way we left things and all I think that there would be a _real_ risk of me making things even worse between us.” She’d looked appealingly at the youngest brother. “He doesn’t _need_ me whining Sher.” She’d cupped at where his hand had rested on the gear stick. “Doesn’t need me begging, telling him what a stupid idiot he’s being”-Sherlock had at least smiled, albeit painfully, at that-“He wants to face this on his own, and for a while, and until I can get things sorted, then I’m afraid that I’ll have to _let_ him. I’ll have to trust him as much as he’s hopefully trusting me to figure this all out.”

“But”-

“His health, I know. I’m worried about that too.” She’d looked away. “It’s a great concern of mine actually.” She’d let go of him and pushed at her hair, before she’d replaced her hand on his again. “But I really think that this way is best.” She’d rubbed at his hand and tried to draw warmth and strength from it and give it in turn to him at the same time. “I’m not running from this.” She’d met his eyes. “I’m not burying my head in the sand. You have to trust me too. Do you? Do you trust me with him? Your brother?” Slowly Sherlock had nodded his head and F/N had felt that their long relationship had helped. She’d let out a sigh of relief. _“Good.”_

“Is whatever you’re planning dangerous?” F/N had looked at him questioningly. “Whatever you are Mycroft will still want me to protect you.”

“He was aware that I was coming home?” she’d asked.

Sherlock had nodded. “He’s probably got an eye on us right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found yourself refunded for your flight in a few days.”

Part of her-the part that had _always_ felt ultimately safe even if it was annoying that Mycroft spied on her-had felt content, if not happy, as she’d faced the front. Part of her had felt sad, however, that he was still continuing to do what was best for everyone else and _not_ himself. As if he’d sensed her mood Sherlock had turned his hand carefully around and grasped hers with it. They’d locked eyes.

“What will your first course of action be?” 

*

Sherlock had thought her mad, but _hopefully_ not neglectful when F/N had explained that she needed to essentially hi-jack the spa Christmas gift that she’d intended for Mycroft and her to use and instead splurge it on Violet and her. It wasn’t, of course, that Sherlock thought that his older brother would particularly miss the gift-it was spending more time with _F/N_ that he would have enjoyed out of it the most-rather it was that Sherlock questioned the timing and necessity of the thing. After all, only a few days later and after further stories had come out-all in the same shadowy vein as those that had been first released and _worse_ in some cases, but it had been hard for F/N to be shocked a second time, rather she had only been further saddened-it had become apparent that Mycroft had _not_ been in a position where he was doing well. [In a recent photograph that Sherlock had shared with F/N, Mycroft already looked too sleep deprived, pale and unhealthy for her liking, as if he’d been running his hands through his hair too many times and eating far too much of the wrong sort of food in the times when he _had_ actually been eating. She worried that he was suffering from nightmares again and she’d asked Sherlock not to share any more of those kinds of images with her, unless it was an emergency or her brain went too wild, so that she’d be able to focus on her mission.] She’d tried to remind herself of the crucial work that she was doing-and that she wasn’t just ignoring everything that was going on and off on some jolly-when she’d crossed to the wooden bench in the London sauna room and sat herself down beside Violet who had already been present. It had been just the pair of them there and neither one of them had worn anything more than a towel.

“You took your time coming,” Violet had sniffed. _“Still_ recovering from that massage?”

“It _was_ a little rough,” F/N had relented, “Though not as rough as learning about my parents,” she’d added, for she hadn’t had the right opportunity to bring that up with Violet previously and it was something that she'd wanted to discuss as _well_ as Mycroft.

“You _know?”_ Violet’s face had broken with some deep emotion, before it had quickly recovered again. “Of _course_ you know,” she’d grown more confident, “That was why you ended up in Canada. I _did_ wonder.”

“Yes, Mycroft wanted me to talk to my grandmother.”

“Did it help?”

“I think future visits might more, but it was a start,” F/N’s voice had grown a touch strained.

“You are wondering no doubt why I kept that from you?” F/N had nodded. “Well, I did it”-Violet had not looked at her, but rather haughtily at the wall that had been opposite them instead-“Because not _only_ did there not seem to be a right time, no matter _what_ age you became, but because I was concerned about what effect it would have on you.” She’d swiveled her head to glance at her for a moment and F/N had thought she’d seen her eyes fill with something tender, before her gaze had moved away again. “There came a time when Edwin believed that we should tell you the truth,” she’d confessed, “That we had done all we can to insulate and give you different examples than those of your parents to look to and that you _deserved_ to know. I thought that you’d become too soft to be able to deal with it.” F/N had bristled at that. “My family-Edwin and Mycroft especially, though we all did to a point with the exception of Eurus-spoilt you. I think that you would have become tougher had in fact your parents survived. The final part of your childhood in fact _flourished_ with us in a way that it might not have done with them. So I kept your secret and when Mycroft found out I encouraged him to keep it as well. I told him it was kinder for you that way.” She’d chuckled bitterly to herself. “He used the same line against me when I discovered the truth about Eurus. Said that it was _kinder_ for me to think her dead.” She’d shaken her head in despair about her eldest son. 

“And the memorial? Why make it? Why make a _tribute_ to a murderer?”

“Because your mother was so much more than that, or at least she had the potential to be. It was also for you,” Violet had told her. “A place where you could come to terms with your loss.” She’d briefly paused, before she’d gone on to say, _“Now,_ just like I did at Christmas I need to ask what your intentions are towards my son?” She’d seemed to have thought that she’d indulged F/N _enough_ with the mention of her parents.

F/N had swallowed and leant back a little. For a moment she’d closed her eyes. She may have been putting too much pressure on herself, but she believed that what she faced in that moment was as much of a test as what would be to come. A test where she had to _prove,_ as much to _herself,_ as to Mycroft’s family, that she was worthy of his love. 

“I have no intention of giving Mycroft up,” she’d told Violet, “But if we are to _truly_ work”-she’d adjusted her weight-“If he is to have _any_ of his humanity left, then I think that he has to leave his current job for good. I’m saying that not because I have _always_ wanted us to work in the same industry as one another, but because I think that, that’s the _only_ way that he’ll ever be happy.” 

"And how are you going to make him happy and achieve what you're saying? By talking to him? Because I think you'll have difficulty convincing my son, let me tell you that for free"- 

"No, I- _We’ve_ passed beyond words on this one subject. Mycroft and I, that’s what I believe Violet”-

“You want _me_ to talk to him?” Violet had looked at her in a hawk-like fashion as if she would _not_ be up for doing F/N’s dirty work.

_“No._ That’s not what I meant.” F/N had shaken her head. Sweat had dripped down into her eyes. She’d attempted to shake it away again, before she’d looked levelly at Violet. “I need to speak with your brother. The only thing I need you to tell me is where he is so I can. After all it was _Rudy_ who made Mycroft believe and see what he now does. If Rudy is the one to tell Mycroft that he doesn’t _need_ to do that any more, that he doesn’t _need_ to keep selling his soul to them, then Mycroft might listen to him because Rudy is the _only_ other person who might be able to understand the situation he’s in. Mycroft respects his uncle and they are _both_ creative people in their hearts. If I can persuade Rudy to go in that direction then Mycroft might _finally_ feel as if he has permission and stop this nonsense.” 

“I fear that you are making a mistake.” Violet had let out a breath. “That by trying to remove him from his job you will only bring about bad consequences and that perhaps the _kindest_ thing for the pair of you would be to let one another go if you can't tolerate him being in such work and he wishes to be stubborn like he is. I don’t think you understand the situation well enough.”

_“I”-_

“When Mycroft told you about Eurus the first time did you not buy into his story, his point of view fully?” Violet had asked her with a knowing look in her eye. “How he _had_ to do it? When the reality was that there was _always_ another way for him? A _better_ option? Whether it is my brother’s fault that Mycroft got sucked into that world fully or not, the point is that he _did_ get sucked in to it. He has already been taken over by the view that he has to live that life and it might be too late for him to be persuaded otherwise or for you to rise to this particular challenge. Do you _really_ have the determination to go through with it F/N? All the ups and downs that this might entail?” Violet had looked at her maddeningly for a moment, before she’d let out a low sigh and had looked at her own knees. “I know that you must be going through a lot at the moment after the discovery about your parents…I am sorry if I have contributed to the burden that is currently in your mind, but if you are trying to do this because you think that it will make you feel better about everything, that you can control it, then I’d urge you to stop, and to stop now. It might only end with Mycroft resenting you. Are you _really_ willing to go through with it if that might be the case? To put your entire relationship on the line for the sake of my son’s happiness, which might or might not come out of what you intend to do?” In spite of Violet’s words in that moment F/N had felt as if the older woman had _wanted_ a champion for her eldest son, maybe so that she wouldn’t have to worry about him as much. 

“I only want to protect him,” F/N had been cautious in her response.

“Let me tell you something”-Violet had sighed, as she'd seen that she'd have to further explain things- _“I_ made Edwin change his job once.” F/N had been surprised. “We're _not_ that different you and I,” Violet had told her with a bit of a wry smile about her face. “At the time I worked out that in order for us to be able to _comfortably_ raise our family and keep the eccentricities and extra homes that have travelled through _generations_ of my ancestors”-it was in that moment that F/N had realized that, ‘Holmes,’ was _Violet’s_ maiden name and _not_ Edwin’s, that the couple had been relatively advanced for their time or at least that Edwin had been _submissive_ enough to take Violet’s name rather than expecting her to take _his_ -“It would be preferable for him to move _away_ from the odd jobs that he’d been doing, and his dreams, and to focus on a career that he could progress in. Some of my relatives- _not_ Rudy,” Violet had seemed to read F/N’s mind in that moment, “Helped him into the insurance world, but I often feel that he would have been happier in nature or doing something with his hands. Maybe even doing something behind the scenes in those animal or bird documentaries that we’ve watched together in the past.” She’d indulged F/N with a smile. “So what I mean to say is, what _seems_ logical and practical to us and like a good idea at the time or the _best_ for a person doesn’t always work out that way. I will pass on my brother’s details to you, but you need to be _absolutely_ sure that you are doing the right thing, before you proceed. That you are _certain_ that you are doing the right thing in order to maximize Mycroft’s happiness and that this is what he will ultimately want.”

F/N had taken a deep breath. “I am sure Violet,” she’d told her. After all Violet may have been right to caution her, but whilst she sensed that Edwin’s _health_ had not been at stake from his change of job the same had not been able to be said for Mycroft. Happiness aside-although playing with such a thing had made her feel uneasy-the circumstances were different she’d felt. 

Violet had nodded and had tried to place her faith in her.

*

F/N hadn’t been able to get an appointment with Rudy until a week and a half later. [The man may have retired, but apparently he was _still_ popular with people going to seek his advice, at _least_ according to his assistant who had been the one that she’d spoken to.] 

In the meantime F/N had just had to hold her nerve and keep trying to placate her grandmother who had rung her on a near daily basis in order to check whether she’d spoken to Mycroft. She was always disappointed when F/N had said that she hadn’t and it had been of no consequence to her that F/N had told her that she was handling things in her own way-her grandmother was insistent that the _only_ way that things would ever be sorted was if F/N spoke to Mycroft. She’d had a brief conversation with her godmother too, who had rung to check on her because of all the things that had been going around-the media had found out about her parents and F/N had tried to avoid the coverage the best that she’d been able to-and rung out of a sense of _duty_ more than care, she had been sure, as her relationship with her godmother had _always_ been a little stiff when compared to her relationship with the Holmes family. Her parents’ deaths being in the spotlight had upset her, but what had _truly_ gotten to her was the fact that Mycroft’s act had seemed all the _more_ pointless because it had barely delayed such a thing. Violet and Edwin had been in touch with her as well, but they were at least easier to handle because they'd known about F/N’s appointment with Violet’s brother. Ultimately she’d kept convincing herself in her head, no matter _how_ much she fretted about what the passing of time had been doing to Mycroft-how many nightmares he would have had, the comfort food that he would have turned to, how _ill_ he would have looked-that she was doing the right thing and that things would prevail in her favour. If she was religious then she would have prayed or gone to the representative building. 

Finally the afternoon had come when she’d gone to see Rudy. He was spending his days in a townhouse in the heart of London. She’d taken a taxi to the address and had smoothed down the pea green coat that she’d put on over her smart clothes, as she’d looked up at the tall building. Behind her traffic had whizzed obliviously by. 

A male assistant of some kind had answered the ringing of the bell that she’d set in motion and had ferried her through to the living room. It had been furnished in an old-fashioned way, though the odd piece of modern and quirky décor had served to remind her of Rudy’s more creative whims. Ashes from a fire had still been in the grate and she’d sat herself down in one of the adjacent armchairs at the gesture of the assistant who had then disappeared to apparently hang her coat up. She’d thought that she would be meeting Rudy where she was and so she’d tried to get herself as comfortable as possible, even though her hands had fidgeted. Less than ten minutes later, however, the assistant had returned from a different door and had led her through to a study that had been closer to the heart of the building. 

F/N remembered Rudy faintly from childhood-someone who had always been on the periphery of her life, but not interfered with it so directly until he’d taken Mycroft’s career in a different path than the one it had looked to be heading in. She’d still been astonished, consequently, as the assistant had transformed into Rudy: shedding glasses and a wig and pulling down his cuffs from where they’d been tucked into a cheap suit. 

“Forgive me for wanting to look at you in a more discreet manner. I have not seen you since you were _this_ high.” He’d gestured to a point that had barely been over the desk and had been _much_ shorter than F/N had _actually_ been at the age he’d described, before he’d smiled thinly at her. F/N hadn’t been sure what to make of the expression, but she _had_ thought that she should have seen the disguise coming-Mycroft and Sherlock dressed up all the time of course. He’d taken off his jacket and revealed a more expensive grey waistcoat, a gold pocket watch and the fact that he was wearing shirt garters. The jacket had been hung, with due care, she’d noticed, on the back of his chair, which was behind the desk in the far corner of the room, before he’d sat down authoritatively behind it. She’d seen, as he’d faced her once more, that though his face should have been lined it had hardly been, so she’d suspected that he’d had work done. _“Please.”_ His lip had twitched as he’d gestured at the chair that had been just in front of his desk. She’d sat down upon it tentatively. Her hands had clasped together upon her lap. “What is it that I can assist you with? Mycroft’s told me a little about your exploits of course, but I was rather under the impression that you were in a _different_ sphere?” he’d put emphasis upon the fact. 

“I’m afraid _that’s_ the problem.” F/N had frowned a little.

_“Oh?”_ Rudy had raised an eyebrow jauntily and reminded F/N perfectly of Mycroft in that moment.

“The world that he was encouraged to go into, the world that he’s gone back to, that’s _not_ the world that he belongs to.” She’d gone on to explain herself more fully at that point, adding about the media stories, which Rudy had admitted seeing some coverage of and showing a level and reasoned concern about the stress that it would be putting on Mycroft. Rudy had listened carefully to her, but the indulgent smile that had crept on to his face more prominently as F/N had spoken had _not_ filled her with much hope. She’d finished with, “I would like it if you could have a word with him.”

_‘This is why I stayed single,’_ she’d thought that she’d heard Rudy say to his desk, her non-theatrics evidently not having appealed better to his sensibility, before he’d met her gaze with a tolerant smile. “Listen, my dear, I understand that you have never been one for Mycroft carving out his future in this line of work,” his words had been firm, “But there are _some_ things”-

“I _know_ why he did it of course,” she’d said, before he’d been able to say that people like her, who had been able to follow their dreams wholeheartedly would never understand, “I _know_ why you encouraged him.”

“Frankly I wish that he’d remembered such sentiments strongly enough to _stick_ with the path that he’d begun to walk down, instead of giving it up at any point for”-

“But I”- Rudy had stood and swept around the desk. He’d stared down at her. There had been some sympathy in his eyes, but the largest part of him had seemed to believe her ignorant of all that was going on there. Upon seeing such a thing she’d grown pretty desperate when she’d stated, “If you could just _talk_ to him, tell him that he doesn’t _need_ to do these kinds of things any more, that he’s safe, that _everyone_ he loves is, I’m sure that he’d listen to you. You’re both creative people and _you’re_ his mentor.” Tears had pricked at her eyes.

“My dear,” Rudy had crouched down beside her and placed his hand partially over both of hers, “As a creative person who has found out things for _himself_ along the way, and who has watched the plight of his nephew as he tried to make a different leap, only to discover what I have _long_ since known and tried to warn him about, that a creative career is risky, not beneficial to”-

_“But”-_

“You say that he does not belong in this government world, but it is the one that he has always _known,_ the one that he has always occupied.” He’d stroked at her hand in order to try and soothe her as her chest had contracted and her breath had grown whispery inside of her torso. “He might not always be as _happy_ in that world, but he will not feel as secure anywhere else, not have the confidence, the _belief_ that the people he cares for-you amongst them-will be as protected without him being in that job.” She’d remembered the first time that Mycroft and her had, had a proper date at hers, how excited his eyes had appeared when he’d told her about giving in his notice, but how he’d _also_ suffered nightmares and moments of difficulty along the way. Was Rudy _right?_ And by that definition _Violet_ because they seemed to share similar views? _Had_ their attempt to extract Mycroft back then been hopeless? Was what she had been doing at that point futile? _Destined_ to fail after the years of indoctrination that Mycroft had already had? The years of thinking one way over another? Or was Rudy _himself_ a victim of being brainwashed? The last person she should have come to, but come to him she had because she’d thought that he might have understood-

“I love him,” she’d tried one last thing in vain.

Rudy had let her comment pass by. “Mycroft has told me that the pair of you are no longer together”-

“He _did?”_ she’d almost hiccupped. A thought had begun to form inside of her head.

Rudy had bowed his own, before he’d plucked out his pocket-handkerchief and dabbed at F/N’s face with it. F/N had pushed it away, suddenly angry that it hadn’t been Mycroft’s and that he hadn’t been there, but off doing God knows what instead.

“I appreciate you caring still for him. Mycroft will as well. You need to move on now.” As her breath had caught tight inside of her chest her mouth had fluttered open and shut. “He is a grown man, who has learnt, as most men do over time, that you cannot change who you have become out of circumstance and breeding. Eventually you have to settle for who you are.” F/N had not known what to say. Her heart had felt more broken than it had done when she’d _first_ read Mycroft’s letter. In that moment there had been hope. Hope that had felt as if it had been diminishing by that point. _“Come.”_ Rudy had helped her to her feet by grasping her firmly by the elbow. “You need to go now. You can keep that.” He’d nodded at the pocket-handkerchief, which he’d forced into her hand when he’d assisted her up. She’d tried to give it back to him, but she’d refused. Instead he’d seen her to the door and had swept her up into her coat along the way.

The door had already been shut behind her by the time that she’d realized that she’d been out on the pavement and that people had walked around her, as she’d faced the onslaught of traffic. 

Her shoulders had slumped a little. She’d found herself absentmindedly studying the pocket-handkerchief as she’d felt lost and had wondered what to do next. 

Mainly purple in colour it had taken her a moment to notice the light blue stitching that had been in one corner and which had read: **I’m sorry.** Who was it from? _Mycroft?_ For evidently predicting that she’d go and see his uncle and gaming out a response before hand or _Rudy?_ For perhaps secretly hoping the same things that she did, but not being able to help it come true himself. Could it have been from the _pair_ of them? Made out like only _one_ of them had done it because they’d been apologizing for different things? 

Whatever the case it had meant that F/N had to come up with something different if she was going to end up helping Mycroft.

She’d started to walk. Initially with no definite location in mind, but her feet had begun to take her across town to Baker Street and by the time that she’d realized it, it had felt as if she’d gone too far to reverse the decision. 

“Oh, F/N dear,” Martha had opened the door to her. “I haven’t seen you in so long.” She’d tried to embrace her, but F/N had gently pushed her away again.

“I’m really sorry Martha. I’ll tell you all about it, but right now I need to see Sherlock.” She’d rushed past her friend, who had concern in her eyes and had hurried upstairs. Martha, not knowing what else to do, had gone to make them all some tea.

F/N had barely seen a glimpse of Sherlock turning around, before she’d launched herself into his arms.

He’d made a grunt of exclamation, but the pace of his heart had quickly calmed down and he’d patted a little awkwardly at her hair to encourage her to let go of him.

As she’d felt oddly comforted she’d sniffed and begun to pull away. “Rudy won’t help Mycroft.” She’d handed him the pocket-handkerchief. He’d studied it for a moment and his eyes had taken on sadness, as they’d seen the apology.

“He wants to protect Mycroft himself and he’s all too aware of the dangers,” he’d sounded gruff, as he’d looked up at her. _“I_ could have told you that if you’d consulted me”-

“You don’t _always_ wait for people to consult you, before you give your opinion,” she’d been a little on edge at the suggestion that she’d wasted everyone’s time.

“Maybe I’m just trying to be the grown-up that Mummy seems to think I am or _maybe_ I’m just trying to have faith in you. In any case it was pointless you seeing him.”

“At least we know for sure.” She’d decided to accept Sherlock’s backhanded compliment to her with a sigh. “The inquiry’s coming up.” She’d sat down on the settee. Sherlock had thrown himself into his normal armchair and had looked across at her. “Mycroft could always argue that he wasn’t an official member of the government, that he didn’t _hold_ the same status as your typical civil servant because so much of what he did was designed to be in the shadows anyway. He didn’t have an official title”-

“As far as we know,” Sherlock had played devil’s advocate. “There’s also the fact that he was getting _paid_ for his services.”

“Exactly, so that route of defence becomes more closed off,” F/N had sounded as if she’d almost _hoped_ that he’d say such things. “Instead you could argue that he didn’t realize the true extent of his actions and so he cannot be held responsible for any deaths or injuries that might have been caused.” She’d felt suddenly sick and had swallowed back some bile.

“He’ll be tainted by the fact that he’s my brother, _and_ older too,” Sherlock had said. “People will expect him to have at least, if not _greater,_ intelligence than me.”

F/N had blown out a bit of a breath. _“Right._ It’s also difficult to argue that, as much as he’s tried to protect his family over the years”-

“I hope you’re including _yourself_ in that.” 

“It’s difficult to argue that he didn’t abuse his position because of them- _us,”_ she’d winced as she’d corrected herself. “That the means justified the ends.” 

“In short, if all this is allowed to unfold then Mycroft will most certainly be charged and removed from his job. The up side to that is he won’t be able to hold his post for much longer anyway.”

F/N had opened her mouth, but her next remark had been postponed by the clattering of the tea tray and they’d listened in a thoughtful silence as Martha had finished climbing the rest of the stairs and had carefully entered the room. 

“Here you are dears.” F/N had helped her to clear some space on the coffee table for the tea tray. “Now you look after this one, won’t you?” She’d gestured at F/N and had looked Sherlock’s way. Sherlock had made a grudging sound. _“Don’t_ grunt at me Sherlock Holmes or I’ll be putting your rent up. God knows I should have done after everything you’ve put my wall through for all these years.” She’d sent a small wink F/N’s way and had wandered back out again. 

F/N and Sherlock had exchanged a small smile at the pleasure of that one familiarity, before F/N had become more serious when she’d gone on to say, “That doesn’t mean that they _won’t_ try and sneak him in somewhere else and slowly restore him to the position that he had before, making his life hell again.”

_“Precisely,”_ Sherlock had remarked approvingly. “Which means that the _only_ way that we can truly get him out of there is if he comes to his senses and resigns”-

“Which we _both_ know is not likely to happen now that he’s hi-jacked the _one_ person who was best placed to change his mind”-

“I still think that _you’re_ it, but I know your thoughts on that.”

“Yeah,” F/N had briefly acknowledged. “That means that since we’ve failed to make Mycroft see common sense”-

“The only option that we’re _actually_ left with is to blackmail the British government.”

_“Blackmail?!”_ F/N had exclaimed. 

Sherlock had nodded determinedly. “We threaten to bring down the British government unless they release Mycroft and promise us that there will be no repercussions. We will be able to do this because by that point, if all goes to plan, we will be the _only_ ones, aside from the media, in possession of the evidence”-

“But if we ever used it then it would effect Mycroft”-

_“Not_ if we pinned the acts that Mycroft’s committed on someone more deserving and made it _look_ like the government has just been using Mycroft as a scapegoat this entire time,” Sherlock had smiled. “So Mycroft will have to go through the inquiry this time, but the evidence that they would have used against him will have disappeared. They can’t charge him with _no_ evidence and if they try to get the evidence from the media then we will remove them from office. I will also make sure that this can’t happen by removing any evidence that the media has in the first place. The press won’t be able to collect more again, but if they try to then they will face severe repercussions. It will be good for the government if this does not re-surface in the media, even _grudgingly_ they’ll have to admit that.” 

“But won’t the media be furious and _know_ that a cover-up has taken place?”

“That’s why I was thinking that a few interviews with you might sweeten the deal. Would you be _willing_ to make that sacrifice?” Sherlock had scrutinized her.

“You want me to tell them about my thoughts regarding what happened to my parents?” she’d read the expression that had been on his face. 

“Yes, I know it would be exposing”- he’d looked apologetic.

“I’ll do it,” she’d barely hesitated. She’d _known_ that Sherlock would not have suggested it unless it had been absolutely necessary. _Known_ that the brothers would protect her as much as they’d been able to. “But how do we go about wiping the information from the government’s system in the _first_ place? I’m not a hacker and I know you can do a _bit,_ but”-

“We’re going to need some help,” Sherlock had admitted. F/N had looked at him blankly. “Can you think of _no_ one who would help us?” Sherlock had waited for her to catch-up.

“You don’t mean”-

_“Eurus._ She’s the only one with those type of skills,” he’d admitted grudgingly. He hadn't wanted to take any risks in that instance. Only the best would do. 

“But _Mycroft…”_ F/N had sounded suddenly uncertain.

Sherlock had looked at her impatiently. “A long time ago, when my brother was scared, well, he’s _always_ scared, but you get the picture, he told you things. Things that made you think, as he wanted you to, that he’d be _very_ unhappy if you ever saw Eurus again. He did so because he is scared and haunted by his own experiences. He can’t get over the Eurus that he used to know. We can’t blame him for that. But what happened at Sherrinford re-set my sister. She’s become the child who can walk down a better path and you can encourage her to stick to that path, but you need to do so carefully. I have already used such words and she might think them a trap if you do the same. The bottom line is that she wants to be loved, F/N. She has never held a grudge against my brother. She could have _easily_ killed him at Sherrinford before, as I’m sure you’re aware”-F/N’s heart had thumped and she’d nodded, as her throat had felt dry-“Or at _least_ been angry that he went along with locking her up, but she isn’t. There is _no_ evidence to show that she will take anything out on you either or refuse to help. But you _need_ to give her an emotional context for _why_ she should and it ought to be the truth. She can recognize and read most emotions. She just doesn’t always _respect_ them, which is where you come in. You _have_ to make her do that. Make her respond to you.”

“And you wouldn’t-?” F/N had been afraid of that kind of responsibility.

“It needs to come from _you,”_ Sherlock had been decided with a bit of a growl to his tone. “You are the one who is in love with him. You are the _only_ one who can do it the most sincerely.” 

F/N had nodded.


	17. Saving Mycroft

The next day at Sherrinford F/N had stepped on to a marked area of the floor, which had been a few feet in front of a door. As her body had been scanned she had tried to breathe more easily, but she’d already been a little unnerved from the amount of armed guards that she’d spotted since they’d got there. For an institution in a secluded place it had, had a _lot_ more people working there than she’d expected it to, but then again Eurus hadn’t been the _only_ person who had been locked up there. Sherlock had informed her on the way that the institution had also held _cannibals._ As she’d sought reassurance her eyes had naturally gone to the computer monitors where another guard had watched as Sherlock had talked to Eurus and briefly re-introduced the concept of F/N to her, asking if she remembered F/N from her childhood.

“I remember everyone,” Eurus had replied to Sherlock, her voice not as cold as F/N might have imagined from what Mycroft had told her, but still quite emotionless. 

“More recently she’s been in a relationship with Mycroft.”

“She’s his _wife?”_

“Not exactly, but would you be up for meeting her? She’s here if you want to see her.” 

“Will she play with me?” Eurus had answered his question with one of her own and F/N had _seen_ the child that Sherlock claimed she had reverted to for the first time.

“She might,” had been all that Sherlock had said. “Why don’t I go and fetch her?” He’d departed for the lift. F/N had waited with bated breath for him to reach her. He’d had a rather terse expression upon his face, but had gestured that she should join him inside the lift all the same.

It had felt hot and stuffy with the pair of them there and F/N had swallowed a couple of times. “I’m glad that I got to see a little of her through the monitors, before going in properly. Thanks for telling her about me.”

“No problem.” Sherlock had given her arm a quick squeeze. “Just give her a reason to do the right thing and she will,” he’d told her.

The lift door had slid back. F/N had observed the three floor-to-ceiling glass panels that had split the room in two and the signs, which had told her to maintain a distance of three feet. She’d taken a step _away_ from her last refuge with Sherlock and had watched, as he’d gone towards the three chairs that had been lined up on one side of the room. His violin case and music stand had been beside one of them and he’d gone to lift the instrument up into his arms. As she’d tried to have as much faith in herself as _Sherlock_ had seemed to have in her, F/N’s eyes had swiveled to the glass panels. Eurus had been sat on a grey bench that had been attached to the floor. A table had also been fastened in the same way. Aside from that the only furniture in the room had been a small bed. Eurus had, had her back to her and had been dressed simply. She’d clutched at her _own_ violin. 

“Hello Eurus.” F/N had approached and drawn slightly closer to the glass. Her heart had thumped and her mind had been _all_ too aware that Mycroft’s future had quite _literally_ rested with the discussion that would be taking place in the next few minutes.

“I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.” 

“But _I’m_ not a stranger. Don’t you remember that we used to see one another when we were young?”

Eurus had turned and looked her up and down. “It’s true then. You really _have_ woken up.” Eurus had settled the violin carefully down on the bench. She’d swept up to the glass and F/N’s heart had moved unevenly inside her chest as Eurus had placed her fingertips on it, as if things had been reversed and _F/N_ had been the interesting specimen who had been behind it. F/N had stayed where she was and noticed that Eurus’s face had looked quite pale and washed out in the light.

Sherlock had begun to play a soft, sweet melody that had been full of longing and which would _hopefully_ help to further get F/N’s feelings across to Eurus. He’d composed it the night before, _after_ F/N and he had spoken and he had felt compelled to do what he had been able to for his brother and her. 

“I’m sorry that its been such a long time.” F/N had tried _not_ to feel unnerved by the probing stare that she’d been subjected to by those glassy and unfathomable eyes and _not_ display the shiver that had crept up her spine. 

“You seem cold or afraid. I can always tell,” Eurus had told her in a singsong voice. F/N had swallowed. Apparently what had been going on in her body _hadn’t_ gone unnoticed. “Do _you_ play?” Eurus had gestured at the spot where Sherlock had continued to produce beautiful music. F/N had shook her head-she’d once tried to learn the piano for a part, but had been so unnatural at it that they hadn’t even shown her hands in the final cut of the television series. She’d wished in that moment that she _had_ been able to. Perhaps she would have been able to form a connection with Eurus more quickly that way. She could have shown a clip of herself playing or had a piece on in the background. “Just like my other brother.” Eurus had rolled her shoulders and seemed aggravated by the fact. 

“It’s Mycroft that I wanted to talk to you about, actually”-

“You should have brought him. We could have all played together. I would have liked to see you with one another.” 

“I wouldn’t _mind_ playing a game,” F/N had replied cautiously and Sherlock had just had to trust her and the fact that Mycroft would be angry with them either way, so F/N might as well go as far as she felt she’d needed to and secure the best outcome for them all. 

_“Oh?”_ Eurus had said. 

“Yeah, but one of _my_ choosing, and it’s quite a good thing that Mycroft isn’t here actually because I _don’t_ want him knowing about this just yet.” 

“How come? What does it involve?” Eurus had sounded keener at that point.

_“Well,”_ F/N had forced herself to grin, “I was thinking that we could hack into government computers and delete some information, but we _only_ win the game if we target specific stuff about a person. It _can’t_ just be anything, and before we delete it we need to make a back up copy or our attempt to win will be over from the very beginning”- 

“It sounds familiar. I think I’d like to play a _different_ game”-

“I think our target would be _different_ though from the ones that you’ve had previously,” F/N had tried to convince her.

“How do you _know_ who I’ve had previously?” Eurus had been almost flirtatious with her.

“I don’t, but I don’t think you’ve had _Mycroft_ before.” 

“And _why_ him?” Eurus had pressed her face closer to the glass. She’d looked her up and down. She hadn’t just done such a thing with her eyes, but she’d moved her head at the same time and F/N had quickly avoided her eyes. “Not _only_ are you not his wife, but you’re not even _together_ any more, are you? Yet you still crave him,” Eurus had sounded curious. 

“I do. I haven’t stopped caring about him or feeling the way I do just because we’ve broken up.” F/N had swallowed and _known_ then that the time had come to give the thing more emotional context like Sherlock had suggested that she do. “I want to help him and this game _will_ do that.” She’d _had_ to believe in such a thing at that point. Believing that it would lead to another failure like the visit to Uncle Rudy had, _hadn’t_ been an option. 

“But if he doesn’t want you any more-?” Eurus had pried. 

“He does. He _does_ want me.” F/N had, had to _hope_ that, that would still be the case even after that day. “The problem is that he’s _not_ letting himself be with me at the moment. You see he’s trapped himself in his own game. For the right reasons, but he didn’t protect himself.” 

Eurus had shook her head at that. “He’s never been any good at playing board games,” she’d sighed.

“I remember.” It was the closest that F/N had come to genuinely smiling since she’d stepped in the room, but smile she had done when she remembered years of playing, _‘Operation,’_ with Mycroft. “He always gets stuck in his head after a while and isn’t successful in every avenue, so _that’s_ why I want to re-set the game for him.” 

“Give him another chance?”

“A little something like that,” F/N had admitted. “Or a better one anyway.”

“But if you took out the emotional context then you wouldn’t have to,” Eurus had pushed, “You wouldn’t have to do a _thing._ Then you could just play fun games with me _all_ the time.” 

“I want to act though. If he won’t do the right thing for himself then I not only want to, but I _have_ to. That’s what I think. You see I”- Eurus had looked at her intently. F/N had _tried_ to keep her own eyes level, but as her mind had run rampant with all the reasons she was doing it for her gaze had wavered and tears had threatened to overcome her. The desperation of the moment, _had,_ for a few seconds, seemed to waver in between them. The music had come to the forefront. F/N had _begged_ Eurus to listen to it in her mind. To understand the reasons for _why_ she was asking her for help. “The fact that the information is out there is making him _ill,_ and you’ve said it yourself, he’s not into music or games in particular, he probably only wins them when he wants to show off”-she’d remembered New Year’s Eve at 221B Baker Street-“But he’s a private, _not_ a showy person. He will put everyone else first always, but that’s something that he’s been doing too long. _Far_ too long. You’re happier lately, aren’t you Eurus?” Eurus had looked at her and it had been hard to read her expression. “With more visitors?” F/N had prompted her. “This place feels less somewhere like where you’re trapped and more one where you can be happy”- 

“I’m glad that everyone seems to have woken up,” had been as far as Eurus had taken the thing, but F/N had seen that as progress in itself. 

_“Exactly._ And you’d feel sad if that number decreased, wouldn’t you?” F/N had almost been able to _guess_ that Sherlock had held his breath behind her. Was she making a _threat_ to his youngest sibling? In fact she had just been trying to draw a point of similarity. “What would _you_ do Eurus?” F/N had spoken breathily and had sensed that Sherlock had wanted to call out to her warningly. “If everyone fell asleep again then what would _you_ do?” 

“I’d try and wake them up, but if I couldn’t”-Eurus’s eyes had darkened and she’d gone very still at that point-“I’d want to get out of here.” 

_“Yes,”_ F/N had nodded, “And that sadness, that _darkness_ is what Mycroft cannot escape at the moment,” she’d told her, “He finds himself _trapped,_ only not in a physical space like this one, but within the confines of his mind, unable to get out of it”-

_“That_ doesn’t surprise me,” Eurus had, had the disparaging air of the female population towards the male one.

“Which is why I thought it might be nice if we could help him. It would be like we’re visiting him inside his mind palace, showing him the way and letting him wake up again, but for good this time. I would like him to believe that he can protect us enough by himself and with us _all_ looking out for one another, rather than believing that he _needs_ the assistance of the government to do such a thing. _Or_ that he needs to be at a distance from everyone in order to see things more clearly. I’d like him to have more faith in himself because he’s helped me be the person that I am today. I wouldn’t have the career I do otherwise. He’s protected me all this time, even though he didn’t have to, but instead he never wavered. _Always_ doing his best for me and us all even when that meant inadvertently making a mistake or coming across as annoying or overprotective,” a smile had broken through her watery voice at that. _“Now_ we have to be there for him. I want him to be able to relax and enjoy himself, even _if_ it takes lots of practice for him to. I _want_ him to be happy. More importantly, whatever job he does, as long as it causes him pleasure and good health then it will be fine by me.” 

Eurus had scrutinized her. “He _really_ means that much to you?”

“He does.” F/N had bowed her head.

“And you’d do the same for Sherlock and me?” 

“I would,” F/N had said the thing without hesitation.

“You’ll play whatever game I want to afterwards?”

“You’re _willing_ to play mine?” F/N had checked with her. She’d let out a breath of relief after Eurus had nodded. “Then yes, anything you like.” F/N’s shoulders had sunk down. She’d felt proud of herself. As if her father would have been too, for showing that she clearly remembered the points that he’d made to her about Mycroft.

Sherlock had come to the nearest close that he’d been able to find in the piece of music, which he’d already re-played half of. “I’ll fetch the laptop,” he’d sounded less heavy _himself_ and had returned the violin to its case, before he’d made his way quickly to the lift. 

He’d returned with the device a moment later and F/N had felt a little _dazed_ as she’d watched Eurus do her thing-swiftly securing them a back up copy of all the evidence that had been against Mycroft, before she’d deleted it from the original source. F/N had felt relieved again when Eurus had signaled that the thing had been over with and had passed the laptop back to them through the revolving hatch. She’d shot F/N a level look as she’d done such a thing. 

“Now it’s _my_ turn to choose,” she’d sounded as if she’d almost relished the process. “I can be the pilot and you can be”- 

“I think playtime might be over,” Sherlock’s low voice had warned. His body had been level with F/N’s as he’d retrieved the laptop. 

“Not _again,”_ Eurus had let out a compliant. “Your parents _always_ used to come at the wrong moment and when it looked like you might _finally_ have time for me.”

F/N had looked to where Sherlock had gestured towards the lift. It had shown signs that it was moving again and then the door had slid open to reveal a very _furious_ looking Mycroft. His face had been seemingly paler in the light and lined with tension; his eyes ablaze and his suit had appeared to be fitting him more snugly. It was one point of positivity that he _hadn’t_ been holding his umbrella. 

_“You_ took your time,” Sherlock’s casually bored words had surprised F/N.

“I came as soon as I could. The fact that you _blocked_ F/N's security from alerting me to the matter-knowing I presume that I'd _want_ to be told about matters where she's in danger-until a time that suited you meant that I was a bit out of the loop. _Deliberately_ I'm guessing?” He’d glanced at the laptop with distaste and had watched as his younger brother had crossed in front of F/N. 

“You did _what?_ And you _knew_ that he was coming?” F/N had got in, before Sherlock had been able to reply.

“Yes.” Sherlock had turned to her. “I knew it would be prudent to have someone from the government close to hand, and since Mycroft is involved in all of this, it made sense to have him here as well, so that we could get this matter resolved once and for all. I let your security send a message to Mycroft this morning when we were already on our way.” He’d paused momentarily for breath at that point and had re-directed his attention to his brother. “I _presume_ that you’ve been watching a connection of the feed as you travelled? That you wasted _no_ time in waltzing in here as soon as you could?” 

_“Indeed.”_ Mycroft had looked troubled by everything that had been going on. 

Sherlock had shaken his head. _“Why?_ You seem to think that F/N is in danger. Can't you see that there's nothing remarkable going on here?” 

“Do I _really_ need to answer that?” Mycroft had looked _surprised_ by the question and F/N had suddenly realized that maybe Sherlock had _wanted_ that particular moment to occur. Mycroft’s eyes had flitted to F/N, as if they’d been checking her over and she’d felt slightly reassured by the familiar spark that had still been inside them. She hadn’t _ruined_ everything in that case. 

“Yes, and I think you should look at her”-

_“I”-_

_“Look_ at her Mycroft.” Mycroft’s eyes had returned to F/N again. “Not _her,”_ Sherlock had gone on in a scoffing tone, but F/N had _known_ that Mycroft hadn’t made a mistake, that he’d sought reassurance that it would be all right from her. That _looking_ at his sister full on and boldly wouldn’t somehow lead to another incident on the scale of the Sherrinford one and involve _F/N_ that time. Sherlock had quickly seemed to gather the fact as well. “F/N,” he’d stared at her himself and there had been something pleading in his eyes, “Do you think that what I told you yesterday matched up with what you have seen today? And could _anything_ that didn’t be because of your preconceived notions due to what my brother had already told you?” She’d _known_ that he’d been talking about Eurus and her perception of her. 

“Have you been speaking about me, Mycroft?” Eurus had asked in a soft tone, apparently having realized the same thing as F/N. “Just like Mummy and Father used to?” F/N had watched in concern as Eurus’s hand had drawn up her pale sleeve and gone to her arm. “I used to hear them arguing about me all the time.” She’d scratched absentmindedly against her arm. “Have you got any drawing paper?” she’d seemed to suddenly catch F/N, as she’d looked at her.

“No, I”- 

“You should never have brought her, here,” Mycroft had cut off F/N’s response to his sister. 

_“Why?”_

“You know full well Sherlock. Or have you become even _stupider_ than you normally are?” 

“Stop it! The pair of you!” F/N had said suddenly and both men had looked at her in astonishment. “Eurus is right! You are _both_ behaving like your parents. You need to look at her and see what you’ve done.” Reluctantly they’d done such a thing. Eurus had been clawing at her arm, which had started to look a little bloody. “She is a _child_ and she won’t go down the path we all need her to if the pair of you carry on like this. Everything will just repeat itself. Is _that_ what you want? _Either_ of you?” She’d looked from one of them to the other.

“F/N, of course it isn’t,” Mycroft had tried to placate her, “But”-

_“Stop_ making things worse then.” Mycroft had flinched and closed his mouth. “I hate to say it, but that’s _exactly_ what you’re doing. With all your fear you’re inadvertently making it _far_ more likely that the things you’re worrying about will come true.” He’d opened his mouth. “Take what came out about my parents for example.” Mycroft had stopped looking as if he might protest at that and his shoulders had slumped regretfully. 

She’d gone to slip her hand over his and had led him quietly into the lift. On the way Sherlock and her had exchanged a nod. Once more he’d trusted her with Mycroft and had _known_ his brother to be in capable hands. F/N had hoped that he would move swiftly on to making progress with the government official who had _also_ been inside the building. 

F/N had let go of Mycroft again once the lift door had shut. 

_“F/N”-_ Mycroft had looked across at her. 

“It doesn’t matter.” She hadn’t wanted him to apologize. “It doesn’t matter as long as you _learn_ from it.” She’d looked at him challengingly. 

The lift door had opened. It had returned them to the place where she’d been scanned, before she’d initially entered the lift. Mycroft had nodded and tried to save face with the guard that had been on duty beside the monitors, but F/N had quickly led him to the end of the corridor. Once there she’d looked back at him. He’d looked a little quizzical, as if he hadn’t quite known what to make of the fact that she’d just walked around fairly confidently in the place. With a little sigh she’d steered him around and had pushed him gently towards the wall. _“My,”_ she’d breathed. Mycroft had looked nervously over her head. She’d cupped at his cheeks and had tilted his face back down toward hers. His eyes had swum uneasily against hers. “You do realize that all this might never have needed to happen in the first place, right? You never _needed_ to put yourself in the line of fire for me? It hardly prevented the truth about my parents coming out at all. In fact it might only have”-

_"You’ve_ put a target on your back for my sister, the government and now _you’re_ in another situation that I have to get you out of, so don't you”- 

“Are you even _listening_ to me My? The greatest danger here comes from what _you_ might do, not from anything that I have done.” He’d wrenched his mouth open. “I’m not saying that your sister has _never_ been dangerous _or_ that what happened never did. I’m not trying to _minimize_ your feelings. I’m just saying that if you hold on to the ones that you have now too strongly then there could be a _real_ chance that they only end up making things worse and then it would be to the detriment of her, your family and most _importantly_ yourself.”

“And if I act like everything is fine, if I bury my head in the sand again and _don’t_ look at all the options-? I _can’t_ do nothing F/N”-

“You have a lot of people to look through the options with you now,” she’d told him, “That is one blessing of everything that happened. You don’t have to wrestle with this by _yourself_ any more, so you should take the time to listen.” Again it had seemed like he might interrupt. “Just _listen_ to me here,” she’d urged him, “When you decided that you wanted to become an agent, when you took part in theatre and we had new experiences with one another did _anything_ bad happen to your family? Did anyone _suffer_ because you’d decided to try and do what was right for you? More to the point perhaps”-she’d put a finger upon his lips when they’d fluttered open-“Did you being in the government _really_ stop anything bad from happening to your family in the first place? Eurus still managed to take control of here. Sherlock _still_ had to fake his own death. You being in government didn’t _stop_ their free will from prevailing. They still put themselves in danger because you _can’t_ control everything My. Sometimes you have to let fate unfold.” He’d opened his mouth more widely at that point and she’d slid her finger away. “Bad things _might_ happen if you go along with what myself, Sherlock and Eurus have done, yes. If you _don’t_ force us to turn over the evidence and if you _don’t_ restore the government’s system to what it was before any one notices”-

_“Oh,_ they’ll have noticed all right,” he’d been bitter. 

“But we can’t stop everything.” She’d looked down and he’d known that her mind had been on her parents again. “Instead we can make the most of opportunities”-she’d bravely looked up at him-“Like the one you have been given here today by Eurus, Sherlock and I. You can stop putting your life on hold when there’s no reason for it to be and you can make the most of your life in between all the bad.” She’d peered up at him. Her eyes had been full of that same hope that they’d been after their first kiss and which he’d mentioned in the letter that he’d left for her in Canada. 

“And when the bad _does_ occur?” he’d been skeptical. 

“Then we be there for one another. We rally around.” He’d pulled a bit of a face. “You tell me your problems. Isn’t _that_ what we promised back at your parents’ place? That if we were honest with one another then things would get better?”

He’d moved as far away from her as he’d been able to and had tilted his head back against the wall. “It’s a nice sentiment, my dear, but”-

“But? _Why_ are you doing this to yourself My? _Why_ are you punishing yourself when there’s no need for you to? _Why_ can’t you accept that what I’ve just said might _actually_ be the best thing for you?”

“Because I don’t deserve anything different from what I have now,” he’d said the thing so quietly, but it had been loud enough for her to hear and she’d felt a channel of pain because of it. 

“Yes you do. You deserve so much.” 

“I don’t know _why_ you’d say such a thing. Why you’d do such a thing and risk your _career_ for me after what I’ve done”-

“After what you’ve-?”

“I broke things off, our intimacy, when I’d _only_ just agreed to increase it,” he’d explained. “That was selfish of me.” He’d looked in _agony_ because of all the ways that he’d hurt her. 

“And you can be selfish again.” He’d looked suddenly hopeful at that. “Because that is _not_ the issue that’s here for me. You looking after yourself is. And what Sherlock, Eurus and I have just done won’t come out, so you don’t need to”- 

“How do you _know_ that it won’t?” he’d pushed her.

“Because it’s not in the government’s interest for it to.” He’d looked at her for a moment. “Sherlock’s been very thorough here, you don’t need to”- she’d tried to reassure him, but he hadn’t been satisfied.

“I never wanted you to be acting like this. To be _working_ with my brother on cutting deals for me. _We_ should never have”-

“Oh, for Christ’s sake Mycroft, don’t you _see?”_ She’d grasped at his sleeves as she’d felt frustrated. He’d looked at her in astonishment. “I wanted to increase our intimacy just like I want to help you out now. I would do _anything_ for you”-Mycroft had, had to struggle to not look too touched at that-“But what is of greater concern to me, rather than anything you _think_ that you might have done to ever hurt me, is what you _could_ do to yourself if you continue to be as stubborn as you are. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here. If you _don’t_ take this different route when everything has been set up for you and move away from the past then I’m _really_ worried about what will happen to you.” She’d looked at him desperately. “Eurus has already played her part and Sherlock’s going to sort out the issue of any back up copies that the media may have. He’s probably doing so right at this moment”-Mycroft had made a sound of annoyance in his throat and had wriggled as if to break free from her and stop his brother, but she hadn’t allowed him to-“All you’ll have to do is go along with it, sit through the hearings respectfully and _then_ you’ll be free.” 

“I can’t.” He’d managed to wrench himself away. 

“Why? Because you think that you don’t deserve it?” She’d looked down, swallowed for a second and had then looked back up at him. “But didn’t you tell me, on the very same day that I first heard that Eurus was alive again, that all along the government had known about her? You were giving me a clue, weren’t you? Whether you fully intended to or not. A clue that maybe you’d _hoped_ I’d ask you about, but I failed you back then.” Mycroft had shook his head, but she’d carried on doggedly, “I never thought thoroughly enough about what it might have meant when you said that the government already knew about Eurus and what that meant with regards to you. I never _asked_ you how the set up with Eurus worked. Then you left me in a hotel that was close to an airport in Canada, as if you were _hoping_ that I’d take the first flight back and try and fix things. So don’t you think that all along you’ve felt like this is _maybe_ the right thing for you? Even just a _tiny_ bit? Don’t you think that at the very least you had _faith_ in me? Tell me that you didn’t.” 

“You _know_ that I can’t do that,” he’d uttered in a strangled tone, seemingly annoyed with her for trapping him in such a manner. He’d pushed back right against the wall and had seemed unnerved. “But you’ve taken coincidences and”- he’d broken off when F/N had shook her head. 

“I _know_ that you don’t believe in them.” 

“I’m a monster. That’s why I’m doing this to myself. _That’s_ why I don’t think I deserve to have what you want me to. I’m _glad_ if you think that there are other sides of me, that’s as much as I could have _hoped_ for in the circumstances, but you should be letting me fix things for _you_ now. That’s all I know how to do after all. It’s what I’m used to. So you don’t need to worry about me.” He’d pushed her gently away from him and had leant strongly against the wall with his head tilted upwards. He’d looked like a very old and tired statue in that moment and she’d been afraid that he’d crumble before her and she wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together again.

“I’d like it if you could get used to something else and that’s not _all_ you know how to do,” she’d told him. “You are kind, patient, loyal, charming, sweet and sarcastic. You helped a broken girl and placed her dreams within reach, yes, but you forgot something along the way, didn’t you?” He’d looked at her in confusion. “Or maybe you didn’t _notice_ when you became one of my dreams for everything that you are?” Very lightly she’d brushed against him and had supported herself through placing a hand on the wall, before she’d kissed him softly. He’d made a sound that had been equal parts desire and despair. “I still want you. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, no matter _what_ I might find out.” 

“Do you truly understand?” His eyes had been desperate. “There is precious little, when it comes down to it, that I would _not_ do if I felt it could be of benefit to my family.” 

“I know”- 

He’d been surprised, before he’d looked resolved and _keen_ to make sure that she'd properly understood. “I might have thrown you under the bus if we hadn’t of met.”

“But _only_ if it had served some purpose in protecting your family,” she’d reminded him. “A _lot_ of people want to save the ones they love My. You are not unique in that and there are things that you _wouldn't_ do. You proved that on the day of the incident that took place here”- 

“Yet”-

“Yes, I know what you are about to say-that people died anyway-and I forgive you for it.” He’d been astonished. “Of _course_ I feel pain for those who have died through your actions, but it’s the _extent_ that you felt you had to do them that stays with me. The government preyed on you My and you need to see that now. You are much a victim as anyone else, only _I_ don’t want to let it get to the point where _you_ die, where there is nothing left to save of you. I would never forgive myself if I let it get that far.” Emotion had wavered in her eyes. He’d grasped a little uncertainly at her sleeve then, as if to anchor her to him and she’d been surprised but hopeful by the first sign that his mind might be changing. Had she managed to convince him of the strength of her feelings again? “Let me save you My. Let me protect _you_ for a change.”

“I”-

_“Please._ Sweetheart you’re sick and you’re tired and you’ll be no good to anyone dead.” Mycroft had snorted in spite of himself at that and swiped a hand across his eyes. He’d looked like he had a headache. “Will you to come and speak to the government official with me?”

“All right. _Fine._ There is a lot of truth in what you’ve just said.” His mind had whirred, as she’d spoken. “But I’m going to resign. It will _further_ dilute the impact of the hearings”-

“And better cover up what Sherlock, Eurus and I did no doubt?” She’d looked at him a little knowingly.

“Old habits.” He’d looked a little sheepish at that. 

She’d sighed and had squeezed at his hand, before she’d studied his fingers. “I _love_ the fact that you care, that you _want_ to protect those that you love and that you try and be responsible for them and I _know_ that you won’t be able to relax straight away or all the time, but I just _hope_ that you’ll be able to feel a bit happier in time because of all this and I _hope_ that you can understand where I’m coming from? I hope that you’re sure about the decision? That you don’t feel like I’m just pushing you into it all? That you’re _not_ relenting because you don’t think you’ll get out of it? I know there will be rough days My. I know what I’m getting into. I know there might be times where you blame me for today”-

“I don’t _want_ to blame you and I think I have an idea of what I’m getting into as well.” She’d smiled tearfully at him and pushed her head against his chest for a moment. He’d felt a sweet sort of delight fill him. He’d tentatively placed his palm upon her hair. 

“That’s great My, but I’m ready no matter what. I’m in this for the long haul.” She’d pulled her head back from him determinedly. “So will you come and take the first step so that you can enjoy our life together and your family properly?” 

“I will.” She’d smiled at him.

They’d reached for each other's hands at the same time, made their way back down the corridor and to Sherlock.


	18. One Bright Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set a few months after the last chapter. :)

It was a hot and humid day. The sun had shone brightly over the Holmes’ cottage. All its occupants had been doing different things-Sherlock had been putting some of the garden furniture out at the back of the property, Edwin was good-naturedly making snacks for them all, whilst Violet had chatted and made her own version of lemonade. Mycroft, who had gone back to being an agent and had re-joined the theatre company, was discussing some specifics of the next show that he would be in with a few of the other cast members over Zoom and F/N, meanwhile, was sat at the base of the spire on her parents’ memorial. She’d decided not to take it down or have it altered in any way. Like Violet had told her it was a tribute to the person that F/N’s mother _could_ have been. It was also a testament to her father, and the vague memories of the conversation that F/N had dreamt she’d had with him when she’d been knocked unconscious had often made her smile. The memorial had _also_ given her much strength as a child and it had seemed foolish and ungrateful to dismiss such a thing. She would have bad days where her past would not sit as well with her no doubt. Days where she’d dwell upon what her mother had done or a stray thought or feeling that _she’d_ had herself. But learn to live with it she’d have to. Like _Mycroft,_ who she’d talked to about how although he’d once _indeed_ had a minor position in the government it hadn’t taken them long, prompted by Uncle Rudy and the supposed necessity of Mycroft taking on the responsibility of keeping his family safe, to give him a set of murkier tasks. Such conversations had drawn tears and made them _both_ feel pain and he’d been aggrieved with her for agreeing with Sherlock to do media interviews and for refusing to go back on the thing. They’d been churned up emotionally by it all and she’d had to make him see, that to her, although the past hurt, the promise of the _future_ was what had driven her and allowed her to get through such difficult moments like when she was interviewed about her parents and when she would go and see Eurus with him. [They were _both_ aware that if they did not take care in trying to prevent the future from repeating itself then F/N might have to pay for what she’d convinced Eurus to do, but for the moment Eurus was content to play more childish games with her and _not_ interfere in their relationship. She seemed fascinated by it, but not in an unhealthy way. F/N hoped that, that would remain the case and that she’d somehow be able to have quite a neutral relationship with the woman and that Eurus might even like her enough _not_ to play a more harmful game with her in the future. Whilst Mycroft was still in the process of convincing himself that, that might be the case.] 

_“F/N?”_ she’d heard Mycroft’s voice call, probably more of a _forewarning_ to his presence and to help ensure that she would not be startled more than anything else.

With an eager smile about her face she’d slipped down from the memorial and into a standing position just as Mycroft had emerged into the clearing. He’d looked healthier by that point and had been smiling more frequently as well, which had encouraged her. 

“Ah, I thought you’d be here.” He’d looked relieved to see her [fairly pleased with himself too.] He’d looked behind her a moment later more anxiously however. “Not interrupting anything, am I?” he’d asked. 

“No, I was just finishing up,” she’d told him, “Dad says hello.” It was her _father_ who she often talked to or thought of whenever she visited the memorial by that point.

Mycroft, who had of course spoken to her parents _himself_ over the years in such a way, had smiled indulgently at her. “Then please tell him that I, as ever, send him my best.”

“Come and tell him _yourself,”_ she’d urged him a little playfully.

He’d cautiously moved across and she’d moved so that she had been facing the memorial. Slowly he’d lifted up his hand and had placed it reverentially upon the memorial. F/N had looked at him and had been taken aback by the deep level of hope, empathy and care that had been upon his face. It was so open for anyone to see, but in particular for _her_ if she so cared to look.  
She’d allowed him a few minutes. Watched as his eyelashes had swept down, whilst he’d closed his eyes. Then, gently, she’d placed her hand upon his. Mycroft’s eyes had flown open. He’d smiled at her, but the essence of his eyes had been so very sad at the same time. “I _do_ know that they’d be very proud of you, as am I,” he’d told her. He’d been very sweet to her since everything that had happened, and they’d slowly been inching towards having a more intimate relationship with one another again. 

“Thank you.”

_“Come,”_ he’d urged, no doubt wanting her to be away from her thoughts, as much as it was healthy for him to be away from _his_ at times. “If we don’t get back very soon then I’m afraid that there’ll be _no_ lemonade left. Sherlock and my parents were just sitting themselves down outside. I said I’d come and fetch you.”

They’d turned. _Then,_ comfortably together, they’d made their way to where Sherlock, Violet and Edwin had been waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all intents and purposes this fic is now complete. 
> 
> Never say never if I think of a oneshot that fits into the overall theme of Mycroft being part of the creative industry or if any of you think that something I have already mentioned could do with being elaborated on and I agree on that point and can make it work, but I think that this is it now. 
> 
> So thank you for all your support on this story. I really appreciate it. :) And always keep Mycroft Holmes in your heart. :) He deserves it! ;)
> 
> 23/02/2021-Completed final edits on this fic.


End file.
